


Renegade's Legacy: The Face You Know

by reddawnrumble



Series: Renegade's Legacy 'Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:06:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddawnrumble/pseuds/reddawnrumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the trail of a string of murders in Ohio, Sam and Dean come across a familiar face from their past that restores something precious they had lost. Unfortunately, not all can be as it seems; and as the noose of murders tightens around their throats, Dean is forced to face every dark side of himself - even when his hatred puts Sam in the crosshairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_December 25 th, 2011_

_Lakeside, Vermilion, Ohio_

Sam Winchester was on the run.

            Boots slapping through ankle-deep puddles of snowmelt, jacket flapping open against his sides, he looked frantically over his shoulder, checked his stride when he saw no one following, but kept going. He’d been on the move for a while now, it almost felt like second nature to just keep going. Just keep going, don’t stop, don’t look back. Except he did keep looking back, the way his dad had always taught him not to.

            Everything John Winchester had ever taught his sons was crumbling apart.

            Sam hit the end of the wide, high-walled alley, stepping out onto a misty street lined with drifts of slushy snow. He swung around the corner and didn’t stop moving, the lights of the city to his left falling right, strafing against the wind-swept surface of Lake Erie and tossing a muted reflection across the corners of his eyes. It was midnight, and so cold with the breeze chasing itself off the lake, Sam was sure if he blinked his eyelashes would stick together.

            His heart, aching with every single beat, every time it jumped in his chest, it felt like someone had their fingers wrapped around it and they were curling in, stabbing, holding on to him too tightly.

            Sam came to the end of the wide walkway and took the next corner, knowing that doubling back wouldn’t buy him more than a minute, maybe two if he was lucky. But that was all he had left.

            Instead he careened around the sharp brick edge of the building and skidded to a stop, hands up in a gesture of surrender.

            Staring down the barrel of a gun.

            Caught, resigned, Sam took one step back.

            The muzzle angled between his eyes.

            In the cold wash of moonlight and streetlamps, Sam glared at his brother.

            “Where is it?” Dean asked, tone as frosty as the air. Sam blew breath out through his gritted teeth, the heat of it jetting against his numb cheeks and creating a cloud of vapor in front of him, blurring his sight. Still, the click of the gun cocking was unmistakable. “Dammit! Sam. Where is that son of a bitch?”

            Sam knew from that tone in and of itself just how ragged Dean was. He knew because he felt the same way, not trusting himself to speak in case it betrayed that. In case is betrayed everything he was holding on to by the tips of his fingers: his conscience, his soul, his sanity.

            And the tighter he held that, the person he’d sworn he would give anything for was slipping away like the melted snow running beneath their feet on this cold, lonely street on Christmas Eve, five minutes until midnight.

            “Sam. This isn’t a game, man.”

            Sam flung his arms out in a wide shrug, shoulders brushing his ears in the gesture.

            Dean stepped through the haze created by their heavy breathing, moving fast, catching the unresisting Sam by the front of his jacket and turning him, slamming him against the building on Sam’s left. He hardly felt it against skin so cold it was going raw-red and numb.

            The thing he did feel was the way the odor of the gunpowder corroded the back of his throat as Dean wedged his arm under Sam’s chin to hold him against the wall, and shoved the weapon into his face.

            “Tell me where you hid him and we can get the hell out of here.”

Sam stared him down, rigid and tense, for all the good it would do him. He knew what would come next; but even that wasn’t enough to make him turn his back on everything he’d done. The last few days had made him more alive and more sure of himself than he’d been since the first time he’d had a taste of demon blood.

Dean wasn’t so at peace with the inevitable outcome. “Don’t make me do this, Sammy.” His voice broke slightly, desperate eyes reflecting the streetlights on both sides of the walkway. “Don’t make me keep this promise.”

“No one’s making you do anything, Dean.” Sam said softly, proud at least of the fact that his tone didn’t betray anything of what he was feeling.

Dean’s arm jerked up and back, jamming the barrel of the gun against Sam’s temple. Sam dragged in an unsteady breath and Dean, teeth gritted, bowed his head.

They stood like that for several seconds, Sam slumped back against the wall, Dean pinning him, and the gun, the gun shaking in his hand. But close enough that it wouldn’t make a difference. A shot from that range wouldn’t miss no matter how unsteady Dean’s grip was. Not with the muzzle leaving an imprint on Sam’s skin.

Dean finally picked his head up, and Sam felt his gut take a plunge at the glassiness of his brother’s eyes.

“Wasn’t supposed to be like this, Sam.”

Sam’s reply was soft. “I know.”

And it wasn’t. Christmas, their first chance to get away from it all in years—and here they were. And right then Sam just wanted out. He wanted a plastic carton of spiked eggnog, a Trans-Siberian Orchestra song blasting on the car speakers, and miles of open road beneath the wheels. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted everything he couldn’t have, knowing it never should have come down to this.

Dean’s arm went slack against Sam’s throat. His hand moved to the side of Sam’s neck, holding him in place.

The report of a single gunshot echoed through the lonely street as the clock struck midnight on Christmas Day.


	2. Chapter 2

_Three Days Ago_

_December 22 nd, 2011_

_Wikshire Residence, Trenton, Missouri_

Dean figured the worst time to die was right before Christmas.

            The strips of yellow crime-scene tape flapped in the wind as he and Sam approached the house; the grass was bright green despite the time of year, but given the neighborhood that wasn’t surprising. What _was_ surprising, if you weren’t in the know about all things paranormal, was that the front door of the house looked like it had been ripped clean off its hinges by The Thing on a bad day.

            “Well, that doesn’t look good,” Dean commented.

            “Yeah, tell me about it.” Sam stopped on the front walk, squinting up at the house.            “So the police found a whole _family_ inside?”

            “Yup. All of ’em missin’ the most precious gift of the season.” At Sam’s bemused look, Dean added, “Their _hearts_ , Sam. Geeze. What, you still think the holiday’s all about presents? Shame on you.”

            “I learned my lesson after the Barbie, thanks.” Sam replied, sidestepping a medical examiner who ducked under the yellow tape on the way to his van. “If we want a shot at these bodies—”

            “I gotcha. Go.” Dean held up and the tape to let Sam under, then ducked through himself. They hurried up the concrete steps and into the house.

            The place was swarming with police officers, and Dean couldn’t blame them. This close to Christmas, a whole family turning up dead was the kinda thing that made headlines. And who needed that pressure right before the holidays? Still, made their job a little harder. Not that they’d had much problem with that this past week.

            Dean capped that thought as he followed Sam into the dining room; the whole family was sitting at the table, the parents and two kids, empty chest cavities spilling blood all over the white tablecloth. Officers were taking pictures, trying to figure things out without having to move stuff too much.

            “They must’ve been sitting down to eat,” Sam said quietly. “Never even knew what hit ’em.”

            “These poor people.” Dean rubbed the side of his neck.

            One of the cops noticed them standing in the doorway and got up to join them, wiping his hands idly on his pantlegs. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

            “Yeah, I’m Agent Straddler, this is my partner, Agent Torres.” Dean showed the man his identification, which won him a nod of approval. “Heard you fellas had a case’a bad heartbreak over here,” Dean yanked his foot away before Sam could stomp on it. “Thought we’d see how we could help.”

            “I’d say it’s more a case of losing your heart to someone, Agent Straddler.” The cop said grimly. “I dunno what kind of occultist, voodoo activity we’re looking at here, but whatever it is, I can tell you this much: it’s got the department spooked.”

            “Yeah, well, we’re following a string of murders not too different from what your boys are seeing here.” Dean nodded to the bodies. “Mind if we take a look?”

            “As long as you don’t disturb my crime scene, it’s yours to pick over.”

            “Thanks.” Dean approached the table, dodging camera-wielding cops, and stopped beside the littlest kid’s chair; she looked like she was maybe eight, nine years old, facedown in a pool of her own blood.

            Sam joined him, looking upset and outraged as he leaned over the back of the chair. “This is messed up, Dean. What’s the body count?”

            “Ten? Eleven?” Dean moved the girl’s hair aside with the back of his hand and took a look; the ligature marks, the blackish-red scars on the edge of the hole over the girl’s chest, not to mention her missing heart—there wasn’t much else it could be.

            He straightened up. “C’mon, Sam. We got what we needed.”

            The air that met them was almost comfortable if it wasn’t for the chilly wind. Missouri was warm for December, not all that different from Palo Alto, where they’d been a week ago, chasing a Norse god. That case already felt like a hundred years away for Dean; they hadn’t had a full twenty-four hours to breathe before Bobby had called and launched them head-first into a new hunt.

            Salt-Lake City, Santa-Fe, and now Trenton. The first case had been vampires, no strings attached. Second had been a Woman in White, the first they’d faced since they’d gotten back hunting together after Sam’s girlfriend Jessica had been murdered by demons. The fact that it was a spirit ruled out the spawn from Prgatory being the ultimate culprit behind the string of killings; that didn’t make it any less important.

            “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Dean asked as they headed for the Impala. Sam stripped off his tie and hung it over one shoulder.

            “Dean, what else could it be?” Sam yanked the car door open and got in. “Skinwalkers or werewolves. And my guess is werewolves.”

            “What makes ya say that?”

            “Because you told me the Skinwalkers are turning humans. Just killing them would kinda defeat the purpose.”

            “Good point.” Dean said. “All right, let’s say you’re right. Timing fits, murders are happening right on the full moon cycle. Guess what’s missing?”

            “The werewolves.”

            “Exactly.” Dean pulled out from in front of the house, leaving the red-and-blue flashes of police cruisers behind. “We chased these bastards from outside of Omaha. Where are they headin’?”

            “And, more importantly, why stop to kill some random family in _Missouri_?”

            “That’s what we gotta find out.” Dean draped his wrist over the steering wheel and looked at Sam sideways—then did a double-take when he saw Sam’s eyes squeeze shut the way they did when he was in pain. “Hey. Sam. You okay?”

            “Huh?” Sam blinked his eyes open wide and looked at Dean, then squinted. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

            “Uh-huh.” Dean looked out the windshield. “Headaches comin’ back?”

            “I’m not gonna go into some psychic fit, if that’s what you’re asking.” Sam said irritably.

            “No, I’m _asking_ if your headaches are back.”

            Sam was quiet for a minute. “Comes and goes.”

            Dean frowned, reached over and popped the glove compartment open, pulling out a bottle of pain pills and tossing them to Sam. “Hurts like a bitch if you don’t take ’em with some food in ya.”

            Sam rolled the bottle around in his hand. “Thanks.”

            The fact that he wasn’t turning them down was pretty worrying in and of itself, but Dean chose to let it slide. “No problem.” He loosened his tie and slouched in the seat. “All right, so we got three cases: vampires,” He counted up on his fingers. “Woman in White. Werewolves. No connection between the victims. No similarities in the deaths.”

            “Not in the human ones, anyway.”

            Dean’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t get it, Sam, y’know, we spend our whole lives _tryin_ ’ to get to cases before people get hurt. Last couple cases we jump on, the thing was _dead_ by the time we got there.”

            “I know, Dean.” Sam was pulling the patient tone. Dean hated that.

            “Well, gimmie somethin’, Sam. You heard from Bobby yet?”

            Sam sighed. “Not yet. He said he’d call me after he ran the plates on that car we tailed in Omaha.”

            Dean thumped the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “All right, let’s catch the puppy squad before someone else gets their heart ripped out.”

 

 

            They pulled into an empty parking lot thirty minutes later to prep for the hardest, most dangerous stretch of the hunt.

            They’d lost a fifth of their weapons in Palo Alto when a housefire had ruined firearms, knives, cans of salt, and wiped out their cache of Dead Man’s blood and some of the hoodoo artifacts they’d accumulated over the years or inherited from their father. They hadn’t had a chance to make it back to Bobby’s to restock, so they were running on half-empty. And as far as Dean was concerned, that was throwing open the door and telling trouble to sit down and have a beer.

            But at this point, they didn’t have much of a choice, either.

            Dressing down into jeans and t-shirts, they loaded up their guns with silver bullets. It was an involved, silent process, but Dean could just about feel Sam’s wheels turning as they worked.

            Sam finally racked the slide to chamber a round, and looked at him. “Whoever this hunter is, Dean, you know he’s good. Right?” Dean shot him a narrow-eyed look and Sam’s forehead crinkled with a reluctant expression of respect. “Damn good.”

            “Not as good as you and me, Sam.” Dean slammed the trunk shut.

            “Dean, let’s face it. This guy managed to stop these vampires from killing more than two people. The Woman in White only got _one._ He’s fast, man. It’s like he knows how these things think.”

            “That ain’t always a good thing, Sam.” Dean said, shoving his firearm into his waistband. “Y’know? I mean, look at Gordon. Yeah, he was a vampire hunter—probably the best I ever met. But the man was a couple slices short of a cherry pie. Can’t tell me that’s healthy.”

            “We’re not exactly well-adjusted either.” Sam pointed out dryly as they climbed back into the front seat. “Look, Dean, I’m not saying this guy is some, super-powerful,  ultimate hunter. But he gets the job done.”

            “I just wanna know who’s ganking these sons of bitches, Sam. ’Cause it ain’t Rufus and it sure as hell ain’t Bobby.”

            Sam shrugged. “Cass told me Samuel was back. Could be him and Gwen?”

            Dean wrestled down the immediate aftershock of rage that the thought of his grandfather drove through his body. “Trust me, Sam, this ain’t his style. Too classy. Way too quick. I’ve seen this guy work, he’s gotta dig in and get his feelers out before he can do anything.”

            “Yeah, most hunters do.” Sam said, forehead creasing with lines of worry. “That’s what’s bothering me.”

            Something clattered and buzzed in the glove compartment and Dean swung his eyes toward the dash. Sam popped it open again and pulled out one of the older cell phones that they kept in back stock in case an old contact needed to get back in touch with them.

            “Hey, that’s the phone I got when I started doin’ solo hunts.” Dean plucked it out of Sam’s hand and checked it. “Text.” He flipped the phone open and opened the message—and frowned.

            “What is it?” Sam demanded.

            “Take a look.” Dean tossed the phone back to him. Sam flipped it around to read.

            “Coordinates?” He said, sounding puzzled.

            “Been a freakin’ long time since I’ve seen any of those.” Dean peered out the driver’s side window; the houses were thinning out on both sides of the street, giving way to flatter country. “Say who it’s from?”

            “Some unknown number.” Sam flipped the phone shut and pulled the maps out from under the seat. “Lemee run these really quick.”

            “Knock yourself out.” Dean said, and in the ensuing silence as Sam got his nerd on, Dean sank into the past, trying to remember the last time he’d followed coordinates to a hunt. It’d been years, he realized. Usually they found cases by word of mouth or newspaper articles, or if Sam was in charge of finding something, the internet. The inner webwork of hunters had split apart almost completely during the Apocalypse; they mostly hunted as solo units these days, keeping information to themselves unless people like Bobby were keeping tabs on them.

            And Bobby had a _lot_ of tabs.

            Which was why it bothered Dean that not even Bobby could get a read on the hunter who was beating them to all these cases. They’d had him running background checks since the Woman in White, and so far nothing was cropping up. Whoever this guy was, he was sliding under the radar. And that pissed Dean off; he was sick of wasting his time on these hunts where they were useless.

            “Got it.” Sam said suddenly, pulling Dean out of his thoughts. “Coordinates are for Vermilion, Ohio.”

            “Vermilion?” Dean echoed. “Hey, how do I know that name?”

            “Christmas.” Sam said. Dean looked at him cock-eyed. Sam raised an eyebrow. “Dad moved us out there right after Truman High. Poltergeist, remember?”

            “Oh. _Right_.” Dean half-smirked. “That was the Christmas dad spent in the hospital. Thought he was gonna blow a freakin’ fuse. He hated that place.”

            “Yeah.” Sam laughed quietly, folding the map in half. He got quiet for a few seconds. “Dean, you know, Vermilion. It’s been a hot spot for spiritual activity before. Might be something out there.”

            “Probably is. But we’re stickin’ this case through, Sam.”

            “Look, Dean, if we’re following that hunter—”

            “I’m not just gonna assume this guy’ll handle the case. We don’t even know who the hell it is. And if we got werewolves runnin’ all over the place, I can’t take that chance, Sam.” Dean caught Sam’s bitchfaced look out of the corner of his eyes and shrugged hard. “Sorry, man.”

            Sam hesitated, then scrubbed a hand back through his hair. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

            Dean felt like his anger was strangling him; that’d been Sam’s reaction to everything since they’d left Palo Alto. It was a whole lotta resigning and kowtowing and Dean was sick of it already. Sam bucking him every five minutes kept them both sharp, like knives honed up on each other’s tempers. So with Sam letting him win every argument, Dean felt like he was losing the edge off something. Something important.

            At the same time, he knew better than the poke too deep into things. In Essex, Sam had scratched the flimsy wall between his memories and his conscious mind and had almost given himself a freaking aneurysm. It’d scared the crap out of Dean and now he wasn’t sure how far was too far when he was pushing at Sam. Like with most things nowadays, Dean was walking a high-wire between what was right and what he had to do to keep things together.

            It took him a minute to figure out what he was hearing when a thin, annoying tune started oozing out of Sam’s pocket. He looked at his brother with disbelief.

            “Tell me that ain’t a Michael Jackson song.”

            Sam’s face scrunched up as he dug the phone out. “It’s a guilty pleasure.”

            “So guilty.” Dean said under his breath.

            Sam rolled his eyes and connected the call. “Hey, Bobby, what’ve you got?”

            They cruised past the airport heading toward Lake Trenton, the hub of the town. Dean cut a glare toward the runway as they drove past; he’d had enough of airports in Palo Alto to last him a couple of years.

            “I know, I know. I’m sorry we lost the weapons.” Sam paused, then added defensively, “I was going to tell you!” He winced. “Yeah, I know it was your only brass knife. Sorry.”

“Which we’ll need to kill that Rakshasa.” Dean muttered under his breath.

Sam glanced at him sideways. “I know. But we need that license plate number, Bobby.” There was another spell of silence on Sam’s end of the phone. Then he got the relieved look of someone who’d just gotten off the tail end of a huge lecture. “Great! Great. What’s the address?” He grabbed a pen out of the glove compartment and started writing on the back of his hand. “State Highway Y. All right. And hey, Bobby?” He added. “Thanks. Really.”

            He hung up and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

            “What, he can’t just get a new knife?” Dean demanded right off the jump.

            Sam blew out a breath. “Not exactly. It’s not something you can just…pick up at some random antique story, y’know? And what with hunters being scattered after the war,” He twitched his shoulders in a shrug. “Rare weapons are even harder to come by than usual.”

            “Makes our job so much easier.” Dean nodded to Sam’s hand. “So, what’d Bobby dig up?”

            Sam took a deep breath and shifted in his seat. “Well, he tracked the plates. The car was stolen, but the owner had an alert out on it. Someone saw it motoring through town, made a couple calls. They found the car on the side of State Highway Y around two o’clock in the morning.”

            “So we got nothin’. I mean, they could be anywhere by now.”

            “Maybe not.” Sam said. “Even werewolves can’t travel very far during the day if they’re on foot, and Bobby says there weren’t any more reports of stolen vehicles since yesterday. So we’re probably looking for a temporary nest within a couple miles of the highway.”

            “State Highway Y.” Dean shook his head. “Let’s get it done.”

 

 

            The highway was mostly deserted, with a few houses scattered off the edges. It was the kind of semi-isolated, winding road Dean had been going down all his life; he felt more relaxed the second they hit it and his brain snapped into the hunting groove. Scanning both sides for anything out of the ordinary, steering one-handed with the other holding his firearm loose against his hip; and always keeping one eye on Sam, who was doing the same routine sweep that Dean was. At one point their gazes met and Dean smirked. Sam smiled wryly.

            “We’ve been doing this together way too long.” He commented.

            The highway intersected Borax Lane and kept going; Dean followed it, noticing that things were getting more rural.

            And then he saw the smoke.

            “Uh, Sam?” He smacked Sam’s arm with the back of his hand and nodded to the thin wisp of smoke curling up from a cluster of trees just off the highway. Sam nodded and Dean pulled off onto the shoulder, letting the Impala bump and ease to stop. They got out, checked their weapons and went to take a look.

            Dean couldn’t explain why he was expecting it; he just knew that walking through the trees, finding the clearing and the heap of burning sticks set up like a funeral pyre, the smell of smoke and salt still in the air—it made sense in a way none of it was _supposed_ to. Like déjà-vu.

            And maybe it was. They’d walked in on the smoky remains of the vampires and the Woman in White’s bones the same way.

            “Looks like it burned itself out a few hours ago,” Dean said as he stopped at the edge of the clearing. Sam kept going, kneeling in the ashes and scattering the few simmering logs. He raked his fingers through the grass and sniffed them.

            “Salt and gas.” He said, shaking the ashes off his hand.

            “You sure?”

            “Ah, yeah.” Sam shoved up onto his feet, tucking his gun into his waistband. Then he paused, leaned over the charred logs and scooped something of the narrow edge of a stick. He walked over to Dean, holding it up so the tarnished edge swallowed up the reflection of the sunlight.

            “Bingo.” Sam said. Dean took the necklace from him and swung it like a pendulum, watching the glimmers where the light sank through the blackened edges. “Saw this on one of the werewolves in Omaha.”

            Dean tossed the necklace to himself and caught it, looking at his brother. “The guy beat us to it again.”

            Sam’s eyes widened slightly and he shook his head. “If you put the timeline together, Dean, he must’ve figured it out pretty fast. This fire’s only been burned out for a couple hours. These werewolves couldn’t have died too long after they ditched the car.”

            “Yeah, yeah, man’s on top of his crap. I _get it_ , Sam.”

            “Do you? Because all I’ve heard out of you since we walked into that vampire’s lair in Salt Lake City is how flawed you think this guy’s gotta be. But so far I haven’t seen him slip up on anything.”

            “Left this behind, didn’t he?” Dean shoved the necklace into his pocket. “Sam, I get what you’re saying, all right? You admire the man. Makes sense. Hell, I haven’t seen anyone move on a case this fast since—”

            He stopped himself, slammed the brakes on that thought and everything it involved. Sam gave him a Are-You-Gonna-Finish? look.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s good, but he ain’t our problem. I’m sick of bein’ two steps behind this guy. Let’s just get the hell outta here, all right?”

Sam half-smiled as they walked back toward the car. “You’re pissed.” He said. Dean glared at him. “Man, you are so pissed.”

“Damn right I’m pissed. I don’t like wastin’ my time on cases where we don’t do anything except drive up, see what some other hunter got done and then take off again.”

“I don’t like it either.” Sam shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his head back. “But what are we gonna do, Dean? You said it yourself, we can’t just expect this guy to be everywhere at once. Eventually we’ll find a case he’s missed and we can get back into the swing of things.”

Dean didn’t say anything, didn’t mention how it made things feel a little easier when Sam was the one being optimistic for a change. The last four days had been hell, ever since he’d found out Jessica’s cousin, Sadie Savage, was a Revenant. Then he’d gone up against Max, the guy who’d killed her, and he’d had some psycho bitch they didn’t even know telling Sam straight up that they were all gonna die.

Dean wasn’t much for sharing and caring, but it pissed him off sometimes how much Sam was taking on without letting him share the load.

“So, what now?” He asked as they climbed into the front seat of the Impala.

“Uh, how about some food?” Sam replied. “We’ve been running nonstop for more than a week, Dean. Ever since you showed up in Palo Alto. Let’s take a break for five minutes and get something real to eat, for a change.”

“You had me at ‘food’, Sammy.” Dean started the engine. “You got a place in mind?”

“Please.” Sam laughed. “Why are you _asking_ me, man? Coming from you, that sounds like some creepy guy asking a hot girl out on a date.”

Dean shot him a soulful look. “I’m paying, baby.”

“Don’t make me shoot you.”

Grinning, Dean pulled back out onto the road.

 

 

The bad mood caught up with him again at the roadside diner they found back in Trenton. After they ordered, Sam booted up his laptop and started researching God-knew-what. Dean slung an arm across the back of the booth and leaned his head back to stare at the paneled ceiling.

“Think that chick who called you is the one sent those vamps out to Utah?” He asked, since he couldn’t get his mind off the cases for more than a few minutes. “Seemed like she was in bed with the Rakshasa, maybe she’s got some kinda mojo we don’t know about.”

“Maybe.” Sam scrolled through something on the screen, the white background of the page and the black lines across it reflecting in his eyes. Dean glared at him, then kicked him under the table. Sam jumped. “What?”

“Dude, you always gotta be on that thing? Your kisser’s been glued to it every spare second you got since that motel in Nevada.”

“It’s not as creepy as you made it sound.” Sam said.

“Right, I’m sure.” Dean sat up, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Hey, what’re you lookin’ at, anyway?” He craned his head around for a look. “Is it porn? Dude, you better not be holding out on me.” He pulled a face. “Tell me that ain’t the video Gabriel gave us.”

“You kept that?”

Dean winced. “What? _No_.” He stretched closer. “Come on, Sam, lemee see!”

“Knock it off.” Sam turned the laptop away. Dean shifted closer and Sam scooted it further around. Dean flung himself across the bench seat and caught a glimpse of something about souls before Sam tried to turn it again.

“Whoa, whoa, wait, hang on a second.” Dean grabbed the laptop and Sam banged the top shut on his fingers. “Ow! Son of a bitch, Sammy!”

“You done?” Sam snapped.

“The hell are you looking up souls for?” Dean demanded, rubbing the feeling back into his fingers.

“Balthazar was tampering with souls when you and Cass met him, right? I’m trying to find out why they’re important, now, in this war.”

“Why didn’t you just—?” Dean broke off, realization breaking over him. “Cass didn’t tell you about Balthazar, did he?” Sam’s gaze dropped to the table. “Hey, he’s super-secret about his angel buddies.” Silence. “You figure it out on your own?”

Sam rolled his eyes slightly, obviously aggravated. “I remember…a mansion. I don’t know, it’s kinda hazy.”

“What else you remember?”

Sam looked at him steadily until Dean’s skin started prickling. Then he tilted his head slightly to one side with that hooded-eyed look of contempt that gave Dean the freaking _creeps_. “Nothing. It’s still a big black vacuum of nothing inside my head.” He stood up. “I’ll be back.”

Dean propped his elbows on the table and rubbed his face with his hands.

Sam hadn’t told him any of this before; he’d been acting weird since Palo Alto. And just for a second, that _look_ on his face—it had knocked Dean flying back a few months. To sitting in a bar with his brother.

Soulless.

What else wasn’t Sam telling him?

He came back a few minutes later with a newspaper and started flipping through it. Dean leaned back, drummed his fingers on the tabletop, scratched his forehead and got ready to try bringing up that subject again.

Sam spread the newspaper out on the table. “Hey. Look at this.” He pointed to an article riddled with two or three photographs.

“Obits?” Dean leaned over to read it upside-down.

“No, it’s a headline. Sounds like it’s pretty widespread, too.”

Dean got up and leaned over Sam, one hand on the table and one the back of the booth. He started reading out loud: “Small town in Midwest, rocked by unexplained deaths: jumping off a roof into a pool, kid drowns. Coupla murders, all different suspects. A, uh,” He paused, eyes widening, and leaned in closer. “A girl drowned in a freakin’ _fishbowl_?”

“Yeah.” Sam rubbed his palms on his legs. “Sound normal to you?”

“Hell no. How many of these deaths they got?”

“So far?” Sam scanned the article. “Looks like fifteen. Town’s in a state of emergency. That’s why it’s making headlines. And get this.” He pointed to the name of the town right underneath the cover picture.

“Vermilion.” Dean said. “Ohio?”

“Yep.”

“Same place as the coordinates.”

Sam half-shrugged.

“Super.” Dean flopped back into his seat just as the waitress arrived with their food. He smiled humorlessly at Sam. “Guess we know where we’re goin’ next.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

_December 22 nd, 2011_

_Wayside Inn, Vermilion, Ohio_

Sam was getting sick of motels.

            They bought the cheapest room at the Wayside Inn, which wasn’t a bad place in itself. A little rustic, quiet, not much traffic moving through at this time of the year. But what Sam hated was knowing they’d be here two, maybe three days, pack up and go somewhere else and do this all over again.

            He’d been doing it all of his life except for the couple of years he’d spent at Stanford. He couldn’t really get a read on why it was just now starting to nag at him again, the fact that they were always on the move, always running toward something or away from something. If it wasn’t a monster, it was a spirit; if it wasn’t a spirit, they were chasing the tails of their own so-called _destinies_. But they just never stopped moving.

            Sam tossed the duffle bag onto the bed next to the wall and dropped into it, rubbing his face and shoving his hair flat with his hands. The headache was back, pounding itself to pieces against the backs of his eyes; he was getting better at hiding it from Dean, but every so often he’d get a pulse that was worse—and those were the seconds when he thought he saw something.

            A flash of earth. Or Hell. Memories from when he was walking topside without a soul. It gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

            Since Dean was out getting food—it had taken them eleven hours to make the trip from Trenton to Vermilion even with Dean’s insane driving maneuvers—Sam let his defenses drop and sat for a few minutes just rubbing his temples, hoping the pain would subside. When it didn’t, he lurched up onto his feet, grabbed the bottle of pills from the duffle bag and popped two. It had barely taken the edge off last time he’d downed a few, but it was better than feeling like he had a knife shoved into his skull.

            He took the opportunity to shower, since he hadn’t gotten a chance after they’d left California, and by the time he yanked on his jeans and shook the water out of his hair, his headache had subsided to a dull murmur rather than an overwhelming roar. He grabbed the laptop and booted it up, lounging on the bed.

            The page glaring up at him when the screen flared to life was the one he hadn’t clicked out of since the diner in Missouri: an underground cult forum about all things souls, including how to sell them and what the ramifications of that might be.

            Sam had stumbled across it just browsing the internet for something else. Funny thing was, he couldn’t remember what he’d been looking up at that point. Now he found himself glued to this website whenever Dean wasn’t looking.

            It was a treasure trove. Crossroads demons, pacts with the Devil, hell, it had the kind of information Sam had seen in his dad’s journal over the years. Whoever ran the website knew what they were talking about. There wasn’t anything about the consequences of getting your soul crammed back in your body after it’d been beaten to a bloody pulp, but there was something else in there about untarnished souls, and what they were good for. What their uses might be.

            Namely, a soul bought for a sound purpose could be forged into a weapon. It was how angelic blades—what the angel Castiel called _seraph swords_ —were created.

            Or that was the rumor, anyway.

            For some reason, the thought made Sam’s skin crawl; and not just because the thought of angels running around buying up souls was disturbing. It was. But Sam felt like there was another layer to all this, and it sat like solid cement in his chest, bringing him back to staring at that one little paragraph over and over. And over. Like he was missing something between the lines.

            He shook it off and got down to researching, but every ten or fifteen minutes he’d click out of old newspaper articles and the recent obituaries and just sit staring at the screen waiting for the answer to jump out at him. And every time he did, the headache started rushing back in waves and spurts, until it felt like he’d never taken the pills.

            He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

            A key slid into the lock on the door; Sam picked his head up quickly and tried to assemble his expression into something resembling normal as Dean walked in, two fast-food bags in his hands, and kicked the door shut behind him.

            “Yo.” He flicked the key onto the dresser beside the door. “All right, sammich for Sammy.” He threw one of the bags and Sam caught it, ignoring the way his stomach curled at the smell and his temple throbbed. “And a massive, whopper-cahoona-with-extra-everything burger for the king of this castle.” He crumbled up the second bag and chucked it, then flopped down on the bed beside Sam. “So, whaddya got?”

            Sam welcomed the excuse to put the sandwich down and get back to the laptop. “Not much. I’ve been at this for about an hour—nothing connecting the victims. So far they’ve been on opposite sides of the city. Uh, we got male victims, female victims, old young, you name it.”

            “Couple of murders, right?”

            “Yeah. But never by the same person.”

            Dean frowned, his mouth full. “What, they caught ’em all?”

            “The people turned themselves in.” Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean’s expression of disbelief. “Yeah. Tell me that’s not a little strange.”

            “That’s freakin’ weird is what that is.” Dean said. “But it’s some kinda connection, right?”

            “One way to know for sure.” Sam said. “We talk to them.”

            “What, the murderers?”

            Sam rolled his eyes. “ _No_. The victims.” He said sarcastically, snapping the laptop shut.

            “Well, hey, stranger things’ve happened. In this line of work?” Dean shrugged and stood up. “Find out where they’re keepin’ these guys?”

            “Took a little digging, but, yeah, I did.” Sam grabbed the piece of paper he’d written on off the bedside table. “Looks like they’re spread out over three separate counties. Probably didn’t want them in the same lockdown in case there’s a connection.”

            “Makes sense. So whose brains are we pickin’ first?” Dean took a bite of his burger so massive Sam wondered how he fit it all in his mouth.  It took him a second to realize he was staring at his brother round-eyed, and he shook his head.

            “Right. Uh, this guy. Kevin Monroe.” He held up the sheet so Dean could see it. “Married five years, wife and kid. Yesterday, he walks into his son’s nursery and puts a pillow over the baby’s face.”

            “Awesome.” Dean muttered. “Guess he’s not getting a Father-Of-The-Year award.”

            Sam ignored him. “The wife called the police. Monroe went with them, no protests. Just kept saying he didn’t _mean_ to do it.”

            “How’s a guy _accidentally_ smother his kid?”

            “That,” Sam said, wadding up the paper. “Is what we need to find out.”

            Sam turned to grab his jacket and Dean put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Hang on a sec, Sam.”

            Sam looked back over his shoulder; Dean was giving him The Look, the one Sam hated at the same time he’d missed it. That I-Know-You’re-Up-To-Something, You-Pain-In-The-Ass, Just-Let-Me-Help look. It was the same look Dean had given him the night in Toledo when Sam had volunteered to summon Bloody Mary. When Dean had told him Jessica’s death wasn’t his fault, that Sam could blame Dean if he wanted to as long as he stopped blaming himself.

            That look made Sam feel sane and at the same time he wanted to grab an axe and start swinging. Dean had that affect on him.

            “Do you need something?” He finally asked.

            Dean grabbed a fistful of Sam’s shirt, gave him a shake, then stepped back and jerked his chin toward the bedside table. “You gonna eat that?”

            “Probably not.”

            “Huh.”

            “What?”

            “Nothin’.” Dean grabbed the sandwich and unwrapped it. “I pay for your pansy sandwich and you aren’t even gonna eat it. That’s a crime, Sam.”

            Sam rolled his eyes. “Do you want to stand here talking about food? We’re wasting time. Jail opens in half an hour.”

            “We really gotta do this right now?” Dean complained. “We just drove all freakin’ night, Sam. It’s like, what? Seven in the morning”

            “Eighty-thirty.” Sam grabbed his jacket. “I can go by myself, Dean.”

            “Yeah, sure. Last time we did that you ended up with a freakin’ god on your tail.” Dean looked down at the sandwich, took a deep, shoulder-slumping breath and met Sam’s gaze. “I’m gonna hit the head before we go.”

            “Okay.” Sam tugged on his jacket and headed out the door. With it shut behind him, he leaned his back against the wall, shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at the ceiling, wondering why he felt like he’d just dodged a bullet.

 

 

            Lorain County Jail was a small establishment, but packed with both personnel and offenders. It was after nine-thirty by the time Sam and Dean passed security under alias and followed their escort to a holding room. The security guard told them to wait and let himself back out. The second he was gone, Dean pulled out one of the heavy metal chairs and thumped down in it, burying his face in his hands.

            “You okay?” Sam asked, standing by the door with his arms crossed; even in winter, this suit felt too stuffy.

            “I just drove eleven freakin’ hours, went and bought a burger, drove thirty minutes from the motel and now I gotta drive another thirty after we meet with this douchebag.” Dean got up and started pacing. “I’m beat.”

            “So? I’ll drive back.”

            “I’m _beat_. I don’t have death wish.”

            Sam scoffed. “Dean, c’mon. You look like crap, man.”

            “Gee, thanks.” Dean scratched the back of his head. Sam looked narrowly at his brother, trying to figure out what it was about Dean that seemed off.

            “Hey. You sure you’re okay?”

            “Yeah, I’m great.” He kept pacing.

            “Really? ’Cause you look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.” Sam paused. “Is this about Lisa?”

            Dean stopped, frowning. “What? _No_. I’m over that.” The pacing started again.

            “Dean, you don’t just _get over_ being dumped like that.”

            “Oh, c’mon. Dumped. What is this, _high school_?” Dean snapped. “She moved on, I moved on. It’s cool.”

            “So I can delete her out of my recent calls?”

            Dean went stock-still, swiveling a glare onto Sam that was so furious he almost stepped back. “You can go to Hell.”

            Sam held up both hands. “Hey, whoa, Dean. Easy. Look, I’m just tryin’ to help.”

            “Kickin’ a man while he’s down, yeah, sounds like your kinda _warm and fuzzy_ love.” Dean spread his arms wide in a curt, ironic shrug. “Thanks. I think I’ll deal.”

            Sam felt a lash of shame in his chest. “Dean—”

            The door opened and the guard reappeared, herding in a man probably a little older than Dean, with short buzz-cut hair and enormous eyes. The man kept his gaze on the floor, shuffling to the table in his orange prison jumpsuit and sitting down, not fighting, not looking anyone in the eye. Sam knew defeat when he saw it, and this guy was beat lower than dirt.

            The guard cuffed the guy to the edge of the table and stepped back. “I’ll be outside if you fellas need me.”

            “Thanks.” Sam said, corralling his argument with Dean and pushing it aside. It could wait until they were on their way back to the motel.

            Sam pulled out the chair Dean had vacated and sank into it. “Kevin, my name is Sam. This is my partner, Dean. We wanted to talk to you about what happened.”

            Kevin’s eyes flickered to life for the first time, his gaze moving sideways across the table. “I already gave my statement, and I stand by it.”

            “You wanna reiterate it for us?” Dean sounded like he was doing everything he could to keep his temper and stay objective, which was a relief. Fighting in front of someone they were supposed to be questioning would probably blow their cover wide open and make this case a nightmare.

            “I don’t wanna talk about it.” Kevin muttered.

            “I understand that.” Sam said quietly. “What happened to your family was tragic, Kevin. But we want to get to the bottom of what _really_ happened. Truth is,” He glanced up at Dean sideways. “We don’t think you meant to kill your son.”

            Dean raised one eyebrow and Sam grimaced.

            Kevin blinked rapidly and finally looked up, eyes glassy. “You don’t?”

            Sam shook his head. “Can you tell us what happened?”

            Kevin clasped his hands so tightly on the table his knuckles jutted under his skin. “Well, uh, it started about…about two weeks ago.” He said. “Bryce, that’s my son, he was, uh…he was always kind of a colicky baby. Just wouldn’t stick to a schedule, you know?” He looked up to make sure they got it, and even though he didn’t, Sam nodded encouragingly. “Anyway, he started waking us up all hours of the night. And then he got to the point where he’d just _cry_ if we weren’t holding him. We’re talking screaming fits.”

            “Sounds like someone I know.” Dean said. Sam half-turned to shoot him a What-The-Hell-Are-You-Doing? look, and Dean shrugged.

            Kevin seemed oblivious. “One day it just…it got to be too much, you know?” he pulled in a shaking breath through his nostrils. “Kelly and I were fighting already about something stupid, and that just made it worse. Bryce was screaming, and screaming, and he…he just wouldn’t quit.”

            “So you did what you had to, to shut him up?” Dean asked bluntly.

            “God, no. No, no.” Kevin shook his head. “I just—things got out of hand. I finally turned to Kel and told her, ‘Shut him up or I swear to God I’ll strangle that kid!’” He buried his face in his hands for a second, then propped his forehead on his fist and looked at Sam with tear-glazed eyes. “I didn’t mean it.” He choked on the words. “I was just so pissed and he was screaming so loud.”

            “Anything else?” Sam asked carefully.

            “Yeah.” Kevin swallowed and nodded. “Uh, yeah. Couple days later, Kelly was at work and Bryce started up again. My first thought was he needed to know I was there, you know? I was just going in there to pick him up, hold him. Next thing I know I’m picking up this pillow instead, and—”

            His whole face crumbled; he put his head down on his crossed arms and broke into body-racking sobs.

            Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably. “When your wife called the police, you told them you didn’t mean to kill Bryce. What…what exactly did you mean by that?”

            Kevin picked up his head, tears staining his unshaven cheeks. “I wanted to stop, man, I just wanted to stop. But I couldn’t. It was like something had me pinned down until he stopped breathing. I did CPR, it just…it was already too late.” He gasped in a breath and sobbed it out. “I _killed_ my _son.”_

Sam sat back in the chair, trying to hide his confusion. After a few minutes it was obvious Kevin wouldn’t be able to give them any more information; Sam doubted he’d be coherent at all at this point.

            He got to his feet. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

            Kevin nodded, wiping his running nose on his sleeve. “Hey, do me a favor, man.” He met Sam’s eyes. “Try and get me the death penalty. I deserve it.”  

            Sam swallowed, mouth tipping down at the corners, and nodded. With Dean silent behind him, they walked out of the room and passed the guard, nodding to him on their way down the hallway.

            “All right, guy’s definitely got a guilty conscience.” Dean said. “Question is—”

            “Did he really mean to kill his son?”

            “Right. And if he didn’t?”

            “Then what made him do it?” Sam said as they shoved the door open and stepped out into early-morning sunlight. They walked to the Impala and Sam saw how Dean’s face relaxed a little bit when he saw the car’s polished black hood reflecting the cloudless sky.

            “Hey.” Sam stopped beside the Impala, resting his crossed arms on the roof. Dean looked at him, squinting slightly against the sunlight. “What’d you mean back there? When you told that guy you knew what a colicky kid was like?”

            After a few seconds, Dean flicked him a reluctant smile. “When you were like, I dunno, nine or ten months old, you went through this really dumb phase where you screamed your ass off if I wasn’t picking you up all the time.”

            Sam grinned. “You serious?”

            “No joke, Sammy. Dad about glued you to my back just to get you to shut the hell up.” Dean’s smile eased up into something more relaxed. “Yep. You were a freakin’ holy terror for a few weeks.”

            “Sorry about that.” Sam said.

            Dean shrugged. “Whatever. Kinda helped me stay grounded. Couldn’t help dad out with much at that point, so I spent all of my time takin’ care of you.”

            They got quiet for a few minutes, Sam wondering with a twinge of regret if that was Dean’s whole life story. Watching out for Sam. Watching his back. Taking care of him. Even though they’d reached a truce on it and Dean had backed off while they were shoring up against Lucifer and the angels, let him take the wheel on his own life, Sam wasn’t kidding himself. He knew his brother was still keeping an eye on him no matter how much they went through or how much Sam grew up on his own. It was a part of Dean, as much as his heart or his soul: take a breath. Feel your heartbeat. Protect Sam. 

But he’d seen Dean on the hunt, how focused he was. How much he could get done just by digging in and standing up to whatever was out there. Sam couldn’t count how many times he’d wondered if the better thing for Dean wouldn’t be a gig like Rufus’s—working on his own.

Dean drummed both hands on the roof. “All right, touchy-feely Oprah moment’s over. Let’s get back to the motel.”

“Research?”

            “ _Sleep_.”

            “If we even make it back in one piece.” Sam dropped into the front seat and propped his elbow on the windowsill, frowning. “So, you believe that guy?”

            Dean started the car and pulled out. “Didn’t look like was fakin’ to me, Sam. The guy’s broken, y’know, I’ve seen it before.”

            “Okay, so something, what, _compelled_ him to kill his son?” Sam asked. Dean shrugged. “Why? Why go after a kid?”

            “It’s not just the kid, Sam. This whole freakin’ town’s full’a people offin’ each other or just dying for no good reason.”

            “Curse, maybe?” Sam suggested. “Could be people conjuring a vengeful spirit.”

            “Spirits usually move in patterns, right? So what the hell kind of a mold does a _baby_ fit? Not like he ever hurt somebody.”

            Sam blew out a breath. “That’s where everything gets stuck, Dean. I mean, unless this kid was really powerful in a way humans couldn’t tell, there’d be no reason for a monster to target him. Or a spirit. He was innocent, you know?”

            “Not if you ask his dad.”

            Sam nodded, then paused and thought it through. “Huh. Maybe that’s the connection.” Dean glanced at him. “What if the dad’s the one killing people? Things get out of hand, he loses his temper, summons a spirit—”

            “Makes sense. Except all the people died differently. Again, we’re talkin’ patterns here. Or where they’re missin’. Murders, drownings, house fires—I mean, c’mon, Sam. That sound like one spirit to you?”

            “No.” Sam sighed. “But it’s still possible, Dean.”

            “All right, so we look into the lore, go through dad’s journal, see what kinda stories made the headlines around here in the past coupla years. Might find something good.” Dean pointed at Sam. “ _After_ we saw some logs.”

            Sam smiled slightly. “Sounds good.”

 

 

            The hallway was black, dim flickering lights strung from the ceiling.

            Sam walked with his gun out and pointed down at the puddles in the cracked cement floor. His gaze swept to every vacant, staring glass door he passed, his reflection streamlined and blurry where he could see it.

            White strata rippled on the edge of his vision and catapulted him forward. Suddenly standing at the end of the hallway, he pushed the door open and stepped in with his gun raised, braced, ready.

            Someone was standing across from him in the cavernous room; unarmed, but still so dangerous Sam could feel the tension leaping off of him in crackling waves.

            “What do you want?” Sam’s voice sounded hollow to his own ears, like it was traveling underwater: garbled and slow.

            “I want to make an exchange.”

            Things sped up again; gun no longer in hand, Sam stood with his hands on his hips. “It won’t be easy.”

            “Of course not. It’s a matter of—” The voice faded out for a few seconds. “—and trust. Eternal trust.”

            “Which I don’t have for you.”

            “I don’t ask for it. I’m asking for cooperation.”

            A pause. Then Sam looked up and caught a glimpse of himself in the glass on the far wall: face an impersonal mask, eyes straight and deep, looking straight down into the place where his soul used to be.

            “I’ll do it.”

            “I thought you would.”

            Sam jolted awake, yanking a breath through heaving lungs and sitting up, shoving the blanket down around his hips. He stared at the off-white fabric until the last few dredges of gray hallway floors had faded. Then he grabbed his hair and tugged it mercilessly off of his face, holding it back, still staring.

            Dean, in the other bed, grunted and blinked awake. “Sam? What time is it?”

            “Eleven-thirty.” Sam dropped his hands. “Go back to sleep.”

            Dean shut his eyes with a Whatever-You-Say-Man look and dropped his head back onto the pillow.

            Sam all but ran for the duffle bag, grabbed the bottle and took another couple pills. Then he walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and got the water running. He leaned both hands on the sink and bowed his head.

            It’d been a while since he’d had reoccurring dreams; usually those had been involved with his psychic premonitions. Here Sam could tell it was something else. This wasn’t seeing the future; either it was an extremely vivid dream, or.

            A memory.

            Sam grabbed a fistful of water and flung it against his face; it helped wake him up, and in the garish fluorescent lights he looked at himself. It was the smallest comfort to see the emotion in the eyes looking back at him—to know he wasn’t just imagining that he cared, but knowing that this ability to feel, and what he was feeling, were both real. That was something at least.

            Sam headed back out into the room and grabbed the laptop. He checked his watch while it booted up; he’d gotten less than two hours of sleep total, but at this point the thought of facing whatever was behind that wall was worse than the idea of being tired. Caffeine could take care of that; but there was nothing Sam knew of that could put him back together if that wall kept spider-cracking.

            Sam’s eyes found the dim reflection a second before his brain registered it. He twisted around to look over his shoulder and saw the blank but cheerfully-colored wallpaper behind the chair. Nothing else. And no one standing there, grinning at him. Which had to mean the dreams were just pressing in closer than he had thought.

            Because for half a second when the reflection wobbled as he moved the screen, he thought he saw Lucifer.

 

           

 


	4. Chapter 4

_December 23 rd, 2011_

_Ritter Public Library, Vermilion, Ohio_

“Research. A socially acceptable, nerd-proof form of suicide.”

            They’d been at the Ritter Public Library since it had opened that morning, delving as deep into the lore books as they could get. Until Dean had started complaining about the fact that bookworm wasn’t really his thing, and Sam had kicked him off to one of the public computers to research recent deaths.

            Sam picked his head up with a sigh, and Dean could imagine the God-Give-Me-Patience-So-I-Don’t-Rip-My-Brother’s-Head-Off look he was probably aiming at the wall right now. “It’s not that big a deal.” Dean snorted and Sam sighed. “ _Dean_. It’s not.” Sam leaned his elbows on the table and arched his back in a stretch. “Find anything yet?”

            Dean turned back to the computer. “Nada. No unexplained deaths, no patterns. Looks like this kinda stuff hasn’t happened in this town before.”

            “Whatever ‘ _this kinda stuff_ ’ is.” Sam said heavily. “I don’t even know, at this point.” Dean looked over and saw Sam snap a book shut and push it away to join the tumbling tower of books he’d already gone through.

            “Nothin’ in the lore?”

            “Well, I mean, there’s a ton. Curses, spells that can infect people’s minds, make them turn on each other. But the problem’s still motive. Did you check Monroe’s background yet?”

            “The guy’s squeaky clean. Never gotten a DUI, never gotten arrested, hell, he never even got detention.” Dean kicked one foot up on the computer desk. “Worked for a paper-making company down by the harbor. _McAllen_ _’s Paper Industry._ Laid off a coupla months ago. Company downsizing.”

            “No wonder he was stressed.” Sam said sympathetically.

            “Yeah. Doesn’t sound like the kinda guy who’d start cursing his neighbors.”

            “So we’re back to square one.”

            “Yep.” There was a brief pause. “Guess I gotta be the first one to throw it out there.” Dean crossed his arms behind his head and rocked the rolling chair backward, staring at the ceiling.

            “Demon.” They said it at the same time. Dean looked over his shoulder and saw Sam watching him with a flat, frustrated expression.

            “Hey. You said it too.” Dean said.

            “Demons like chaos, but this doesn’t feel like a demon to me. It’s not just murders, Dean. Even in their raw form, demons can’t just drown people, they can’t kill the host while they’re in it. And Kevin, he didn’t black out—he knew what he was doing. He just couldn’t stop himself.”

            “Huh. Good point.” Dean clicked lazily through a page of obituaries, the names all kind of blurring together. Then he stopped, a thought occurring to him. “Sam, we know when the deaths started?”

            “You’re the one looking this stuff up, Dean.”

            “Right.” He clicked through a few search pages, following the recently-filed obits back. “Looks like…three days ago. First guy who died was a kid named Kyle Ormond. Swallowed a mouthful of mouthwash. Dropped dead.”

            He felt Sam’s gaze pinned on him. “All right, that’s a little weird. Who’s the family?”

            “Uh, Jason and Stacy Ormond. A son, Mark, twenty-three. And a daughter, Alen. She’s six.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

            “We should check them out, find out how the whole thing started.” Sam said. “Give me a minute to figure this out.”

            Dean folded his hands, twiddled his thumbs, dropped them into his lap and leaned back to look at the ceiling again. Then he scooted his chair back beside Sam’s so that their shoulders almost touched, and looked at his brother sideways. Sam stared determinedly down at the book and didn’t acknowledge him.

            “Two days ago, we got those coordinates.”

            Sam flicked a glance his way. “Yeah.”

            Dean looked at him wide-eyed, waiting for something.

            Sam blinked. “ _And_?”

            “And we get here and there’s something supernatural going down. That doesn’t sound a little off to you, Sam?”

            “I…think we’ve had weirder?”

            “This whole _thing_ is weird. That’s not my point.” Dean crossed his arms. “Think it mighta been Bobby?”

            “Dean, would you stop obsessing about this?” Sam smacked the book shut and shot Dean a glare.

            “Hey, this is important, Sam.”

            “Not as important as this case.”

            “I wanna know who the hell sent me those numbers.”

            “Well, send a text.” Sam said, getting to his feet.

            “Don’t be a smart-ass, Sam.”

            “What do you want me to say, Dean? Yeah, it’s not normal. Even for us. But it’s not like it’s stopping us from working the case. So let’s figure out what’s causing these deaths and then move on. Okay?”

            Dean studied his brother, Sam’s closed-off expression, his guarded eyes. He got up and shoved the chair back into the desk, not caring when it banged loudly off the edge. “Yeah, fine.”

            Sam slumped, hands flat on the table. “Dean.”

            “We ready to go?”

            Sam gazed at him for a moment, then straightened. “Yeah.”

            They threw the books onto the re-shelve cart and headed out.

 

 

            The Ormond house looked like something designed straight out of Better Homes and Gardens. White, two stories, perfect lawn, perfect flowers, perfect _everything_. Even when he’d been living the Beverly-Hills-of-Indiana-type life, Dean hadn’t had anything as bad as this. He felt way out of place in jeans and a jacket over a t-shirt, standing on the front porch.

            Then the door opened and this balding guy was staring at them with red-rimmed eyes, looking like he’d just gotten through a crying jag. There was a picture in his hand, turned away so they couldn’t see it.

            His expression looked foreign in a place this fancy. And it was the one thing Dean could relate to. Grieving people, he was used to dealing with. Not permanently happy ones. They were like aliens. This made sense.

            “Are you Jason Ormond?” Dean asked.

            “Yes. Uh, yes, that’s me.” The guy wiped his face on his arm. “Is there something I can help you fellas with?”

            “Sir, I’m Sam. This is my brother, Dean. We’re college students from Cleveland University.” Sam said, putting on his I’m-Perfectly-Innocent face. Dean just smiled and nodded. “We heard about what was happening out here—all those deaths. We’re doing a tribute to the deceased, and we were wondering if we could ask you a couple questions about your son.”

            “Oh.” Jason nodded. “Right. Um, let me ask my wife—Stacy!” He called over his shoulder. There was no response. With an apologetic smile, Jason added, “Just a minute,” and walked away. “Stacy! Can you come down for a second, sweetheart?”

            “He looks pretty shaken up,” Sam commented.

            “Yeah, his kid just died. Geeze, Sam.”

            “I’m just saying.”

            Jason was back within a minute, holding the hand of a short, attractive brunette woman who also looked like she’d been bawling her eyes out. She looked from Sam to Dean and back again and then burst into tears.

            “Honey, honey. Ssh.” Jason wrapped his arms around her and Sam and Dean exchanged a look.

            “Well, this is awkward.” Dean said out of the corner of his mouth.

            Sam shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, not usually the reaction we get.”

            “I’m so sorry.” Stacy mopped her eyes with her sleeve. “It’s just, Cleveland University—that was Kyle’s dream, ever since he was a little boy. His older brother Mark graduated from there.”

            “We’re sorry for your loss.” Sam said. “Do you mind answering a few questions for our project? We promise we’ll be out of your hair in just a few minutes.”

            “No, please, come in.” Stacy slid out from her husband’s arms and led them into a dining room that encompassed one half of the house and was directly connected to the living room. She sat at the enormous table, clasped hands pressed against her forehead, and Jason sat beside her, rubbing her back gently. Sam and Dean sank into chairs across from them.

            “What would you like to know?” Jason asked.

            “First of all, what was Kyle like?” Sam leaned forward slightly, slipping into the groove he’d been working for five years. Dean forced down a proud smile.

            “He was so bright.” Stacy said unsteadily. “Just brilliant.”

            “Top of his class,” Jason agreed.

            “But a real family boy. He’d never miss out a chance to play with his sister or spend time with Mark.” Stacy squeezed her eyes shut and a few tears leaked out. “He was thirteen. This never should have happened.”

            “What _did_ happen?” Dean asked, slouching back in the chair.

            “The, uh, the coroner called it alcohol poisoning. You know, from the mouthwash.” Jason said.

            “And you believe that?” Sam asked skeptically.

            “What else could it be? Alen saw it happen. One second he was fine, and the next—” Stacy broke off and sniffled deeply.

            “And you didn’t notice him acting strange before he died?” Sam pressed in a little harder. “No mood swings, no change in behavior?”

            Stacy blinked, looking confused. “Why do you ask?”

            Sam’s reply was right off the jump. “Sometimes cerebral hemorrhaging can cause personality shifts.” He smiled tautly. “I’m sure the coroner would’ve noticed, though. Just thinking out loud.”

            “No, and there was nothing like that, either. He was completely normal.”

            “What about the house?” Dean asked. “You notice anything weird? Lights flickering, spots that were a little colder than the rest?”

            “We live on Lake Erie, son. Can’t tell one cold spot apart from another.” Jason looked at them closely. “What does any of this have to do with your project?”

            Sam looked at Dean with his Deer-In-The-Headlights eyes. “Well, uh—”

            “Daddy?”

            Four pairs of eyes turned toward the doorway where Alen stood, biting her lip, looking anxiously up at Sam and Dean. Then her eyes swung toward Jason and her face scrunched up.

            “It was me, daddy. It was my fault.”

            “Oh, baby, please don’t start this again.” Stacy said, burying her face in one hand.

            “What’s she talking about?” Dean demanded.

            “Al’s a little confused.” Jason stood up. “I thought you were playing in your room, sweetheart.”

            She swatted her long brown hair out of her eyes. “I got bored.”

            “Hey, maybe Sam could get the answers we need, and I’ll run her back upstairs?” Dean offered, getting to his feet. When Jason and Stacy hesitated, he smiled slightly. “It’s fine, guys. I help run campus security, I know how kids act when they’re bored. I don’t wanna put you two under more pressure.”

            “He’s good at what he does. Trust me.” Sam added.

            “That’s kind of you.” Stacy murmured.

            Dean nodded slightly to Sam, then walked to the doorway. “Hey, Al, can you show me your room?”

            “Okay.” She grabbed Dean’s head and led him out into the hallway, up the stairs and into a frilly pink girl’s room on the right. Dean left the door open for the parents’ peace of mind, stepping over the Barbies scattered on the floor. Al sat and stared up at him as Dean looked out the window; he couldn’t see anything suspicious going on in the street below.

            “Why were you asking mommy and daddy about Kyle?” Al demanded.

            Dean let the curtain fall back into place and looked at her over his shoulder. “Wanna hear a secret?”

            She nodded vigorously. “Yeah!”

            “Me and my brother? We’re detectives. We’re tryin’ to find out what happened to Kyle so if there’s any bad guys involved, we can arrest ’em.”

            Al looked up at him solemnly. “Will it hurt?”  
            “Uh…will what hurt?”

            “When you put the handcuffs on me?”

            Dean looked at her cock-eyed. “ _Handcuff_ you? You’re not in trouble, Al.”

            “But you said you were here to get the person who killed Kyle, right?” She shuffled her feet through the mounds of Barbies. “That was me.”

            Dean walked over and crouched down in front of her. “Yeah, you said that in front of your mom and dad. Can you tell me what happened, Al?”

            She stuck out her lower lip. “Mommy and daddy don’t believe me.”

            “They’re not detectives.”

            She looked like she was thinking it over; then she nodded. “Okay.” She picked up a Barbie hairbrush off the floor and handed it to him. “But will you play with me?”

            Dean choked down his pride and pulled on a martyr face. “You got it.”

            They sat there combing out Barbie hair in silence for a minute; then Al started talking, really quiet and in short bursts.

            “Mommy always told me that mouth-water stuff is really bad for you.”  She said. “But Kyle kept using it every time he brushed his teeth. It really scared me.”

            “Yeah, I can imagine.”

            “So I went in the bathroom and I _told_ him.” She frowned at the Barbie, held it up and shook it. “‘Kyle, mommy says it’s bad for you!’ He told me to stop being a baby. And then I told him I _swore_ mommy was telling the truth, that if you drink it, it makes you die—even though I’m not supposed to swear. And then he drank it like it was a double-dog dare. And he fell down and didn’t get up.”

            Dean frowned. “Huh.”

            “Dean?” Footsteps clomped up the stairs. “Hey, I’m done with the parents.” Sam swung into the doorway and stopped, a shudder of amusement passing through his features. “Uh, Dean—?”

            Dean pointed at his brother with the Barbie brush. “You didn’t see anything.”

            Sam chuckled and backed away. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

            Dean set the Barbie down. “Thanks for telling me that, Al. That was a huge help.”

She nodded and looked up at him. “Are you gonna arrest me now?”

            Dean grinned and ruffled her hair. “Not today, kid. Just stick to the straight and narrow, all right?”

            “Okay.”

            Dean headed for the door, stopped and looked back. “Hey.” Al looked up at him. “It seriously wasn’t your fault, Al. What happened to your brother? Something else did it. And I’m gonna find out what.”

            She nodded and went back to brushing her Barbie’s hair.

            Sam was waiting on the front porch, and wisely chose not to comment on the playing-with-dolls thing as they walked to the car.

            “Kid was clean.” Sam said. “Just like Kevin. Straight-A, no drugs, nothing. Sounded like his autopsy was clean, too.” He climbed into the Impala and shut the door. “Get anything from the girl?”

            “Oh yeah.” Dean rested his wrist on his knee and looked at Sam. “She told her brother he was gonna die if he drank the mouthwash. Couple seconds later?” Dean tilted his head to one side. “ _Bam_. Kid swallows it, kicks the bucket.”

            Sam frowned. “Are we looking at another Antichrist?”

            “Could be. I dunno. They really look like the type?”

            “Well, we won’t know unless we look into their history. Could be Alen’s adopted, like Jesse was.” Sam suggested.

            “More research?” Dean groaned. Sam shrugged. “Laptop. Not library.”

            Sam smiled. “Just drive, Dean.”

 

 

            “Dead-end.” Sam sat back and rubbed his palms on his legs. “Alen Ormond is definitely Jason and Stacy’s daughter. And neither of them was possessed. Pregnancy, birth…it was totally normal.”

            “Man, what’d you do, hack the hospital database?” Dean asked from where he sat on the bed. Sam looked at him with a slow shrug. Dean sat up. “Holy crap. You hacked a hospital database.”

            “Hey. You wanted to solve this case.”

            “Yeah, but…dude. That’s pretty high-tech.” Dean swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his face in his hands. “Can’t be a coincidence, Sammy. This girl, she’s connected to all of this somehow.”

            “I agree.” Sam nodded, then stared thoughtfully at the computer screen. “So far both the victims we’ve seen were kids. Kyle and Bryce. Maybe whatever it is, it’s targeting…an age group. Newborns to teenagers.”

            “No dice. Couple of the people turning up dead were older than me, remember?”

            Sam rocked back in the chair. “I’m lost, Dean.”

            “Makes two of us.” Dean stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Luckily I got a solution for that. Come on.” He grabbed Sam’s elbow and gave him a tug onto his feet.

            “Where are we going?”

            “Drinking, Sam. You think I can focus with all that damn silence in here?” Dean cocked an eyebrow and Sam rolled his eyes. “I mean, c’mon. We’ve been at each other’s throats ever since California. Time to kick back, y’know, take a few hours and just breathe. You with me?”

            “Whatever you say, man.” Sam said, but he was smiling. And Dean hoped that was the end of it.

            Except it wasn’t. Of course it freaking wasn’t, Sam never knew when to let something drop wayside when he should’ve. They got out into the frigid night air and Sam reached over and grabbed his arm, pulling him around.

            “You wanna tell me what’s bothering you?” He demanded, and Dean readied some witty comeback. “And don’t give me your crap, Dean. I can see right through you. Something’s bothering you and you won’t tell me what it is.”

            Dean licked his lips and looked aside, half-smiling humorlessly. “Y’know, you were the one who told me a guy’s gotta keep a few secrets to himself, Sam.”

            “Dean.” Sam shifted closer to him. “It’s eating you alive, man. Look at you. You’ve been walking on eggshells since we found that nest in Utah. You’re irritable, you’re jumping the gun, you act like you’re not comfortable in your own skin. And that’s not the Dean I know.”

            Dean looked at his brother and felt a punch of affection that went right down into the core of who he was. Maybe sometimes he’d felt like the world was safer with Soulless Sam on patrol, killing the monsters, being the kind of soldier their dad would’ve been proud of. But this, right here, this was what Dean had missed. This was his Sam, pain-in-the-ass, soul sitting right there about an inch behind those huge eyes. This was the person he’d die for in half a heartbeat, no regrets. The only person he’d totally trust to watch his back in a gunfight.

            And this was a gunfight. Just not with lead bullets.

            “It’s that hunter, Sammy.”

            “The one who took out the vampires?”

            “And the Woman in White. And the werewolves.” Dean hunched his shoulders against the wind biting through his jacket. “The way this guy hunts, y’know, his style, the way he runs cases. I dunno. Kinda reminds me of me.”

            Sam went stock-still for a few seconds. “So, what. You’re thinking copycat?”

            “Hell, I’m not sure, Sam. It’s just freakin’ me out. The way he puts on his show, I keep thinkin’ I’d have done the same thing. Put me in his shoes, I’d walk _exactly_ the same way. But you and me, Sam, we’re special. Remember what dad used to tell us?”

            “No two hunters train the same.” Sam said broodingly. “It’s why most of us don’t get along so well.”

            “Exactly. So who is this guy and how’s he know the way we hunt?”

            “Could be he’s keeping tabs on us. Maybe this whole time we thought we were tailing him, but it was really the other way around.”

            “Super. A loving stalker. Somethin’ gives me the feeling this guy ain’t the ‘Marry-Me-Bella’ type.”

            “Bella? What are you talking about?”

            “Nothin’. You wanted to know where my head’s out, there it is.” Dean shrugged widely. “Feel free to judge.” He started for the Impala.

            “I’m not judging you, Dean.” Sam fell into step beside him. “At least now I can try to help. Thanks for filling me in.”

            “Eh, whatever. Stop with the touchy-feely crap.”

            The mood stayed quiet but easy while they drove through the dense part of town, looking for a good hole-in-the-wall for a beer. Dean had Pink Floyd cranked and for once Sam wasn’t complaining. He was actually humming along.

            “Dude. You get a chance to listen to ‘Another Hole in the Wall’ while you were downstairs?” Dean asked.

            Something cold flashed in Sam’s eyes that made Dean regret the question almost immediately.

            “Lucifer’s more of a Marilyn Manson fan.” Sam quipped. “Nah, I just started thinking about stuff. Life, Dean, y’know? How long are we going to be able to do this? Hunting, together, without turning into ax-murderers or tearing each other’s throats out?”

            “Done okay so far.”

            “We’re pretty twisted, Dean. I mean, our relationship isn’t exactly healthy.” Sam shrugged and looked out the window. “I dunno. I just…I know _something_ , Dean. I know we’re not invincible. Someday, something’s gonna get us the way it got dad. Could be today. Could be fifteen, twenty years from now. I just don’t want to step off a cliff knowing the last thing we did was fight over some stupid song on the radio.”

            Dean clenched his teeth. “Thanks for the pep talk, Dave Ramsey. My life feels all put-back-together now.”

            Sam stayed silent.

            Dean reached over and flipped through the stations until he found a soft-rock channel playing a Death Cab for Cutie song. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Sam’s smile glimmer in the semidarkness of sunset.

            “That wasn’t just some pansy speech to get me to change the station, right?” Dean joked. “’Cause all you gotta do is ask.”

            “No speeches.” Sam said, still smiling. “Just thinking out loud.”

            For some reason, for Dean that felt much worse.

            The rest of the car ride was silent apart from the humming background noise of the engine and the muffled strains of the music pouring from the speakers. They drove in aimless circles and finally came across the perfect place, near the edge of Lake Erie where the outlet of the city ended suddenly on a wraparound road, a median of grass and the beach. The bar was brand new: Crowder’s Pub. Dean pulled up across the street.

            “I’m designated driver.” He said as he climbed out.

            “ _Please_. Dean. I’m not getting drunk.” Dean shot him a look and Sam raised his hands out defensively. “I’m not!”

            “Last time you said that I had to put your ass to bed. You know you way a freakin’ ton, Sasquatch-man?”

            “No, all right, here. We both have two shots and a drink. How’s that sound?”

 

 

            “Okay, okay, I got it. You’ll never get this one.” Sam leaned forward. “Haunted Jack O’ Lantern trying to eat kids.”

            “Poltergeist. Anaheim, ninety-two. Dad laid that sucker flat while you were still out gettin’ your trick-or-treat on.”

            “Bastard!” Sam swore, grinning, and sat back.

            “Bottom’s up, Sammy!” Dean shoved the shot glass to him and Sam threw back the whole thing in a gulp, wiped his mouth on his rolled-up sleeve and refilled the glass.

            The atmosphere in Crowder’s Pub was smoky and cozy and they’d snagged a perfect two-seater deal in the back, far enough from the biggest wall-mounted screen so they’d be able to hear each other, but central enough that the typical sounds of people having conversation would mask whatever the brothers decided was worth talking about.

            They’d been at it for two hours, and Dean was climbing a notch on the scale of intoxication. He also didn’t give a damn, because he was actually having _fun_. Two shots had turned into a drinking game with a lenient rule set: if you couldn’t remember the date and location of a past hunt, you had to drink. If you did remember, the other person had to drink. Simple as that. So Dean justified it by saying this whole thing was part of the job. They were just picking through old cases.

            Right. They were getting wasted. But when was the last time they’d had a drink together? A beer every once and a while—before they’d tried to plug Lucifer in the head with the Colt; when they’d been investigating that Hell House in Texas. And whenever they got the chance, perched on the hood of the Impala on a back road somewhere. But drinking games were something they never had time for. Until right now, because sitting around researching was getting them nowhere.

            “My turn.” Dean kicked a foot up on the edge of the table and it almost slipped back off. Sam laughed as Dean tried to balance it. “Son of a bitch.” He scratched one hand through his short brown hair. “Buncha guys disappearing in New Orleans.”

            “Uhhhh. I know this one!” Sam held up a finger. “Lemee think.” He snapped his fingers suddenly. “Black dog. Haunting around a swamp, leading people off the path.”

            “Yeah, what year?” Dean demanded.

            “God, I hate you.” Sam tossed back the shot.

            “Yeah, right. You just wanna get drunk.” Dean motioned and Sam shoved the glass skidding across the table to him. “Try thinking of something harder this time, Sammy. I’m kickin’ your ass.” He started refilling the shot glass.

            “I’ve got a good one.” Sam leaned forward, elbows on the table, shaking his dark hair away from his face. “Alien abductions in a small town. No trickster involved.”

            Dean banged the bottle back on the table and met Sam’s expectant, unflinching gaze. Suddenly his throat felt like it was on fire, and not from the alcohol. “What the hell are you—?”

            “Stop it, you _prick_!”

            Sam’s expression scrambled with confusion; he sat back and looked over his shoulder and Dean followed his brother’s gaze.

            There was a girl standing by the bar counter in the back, hands clenched into fists. She’d gotten up so fast she’d knocked her barstool over; the guy sitting next to her was standing up. More like unfolding off his seat, actually. Man, he was freaking huge.

            “Was that an order, bitch?” His snarl dead-ended the table conversation within ten feet of the bar. Dean flicked a glance at Sam.

            “Trouble?” He said warily

            “Every day.” Sam stood up, a little unsteady, grabbing the back of his chair for balance. “We should check it out.”

            “Wait. Wait, Sam!” Dean made a grab for him but Sam was already heading for the bar. “Oh, this isn’t gonna be good.” He got up and followed his brother.

            The girl was standing back from the counter, rubbing her arms, barely meeting the big guy’s eyes. “Look, Lain, can we not do this here?”

            “Don’t start something you can’t finish.” The guy stepped closer to her; he was ropy, solid muscle from the tops of his shoulders to his wrists. He looked like he could snap Skinny Mini in half with one hand. The look on his face didn’t make it out of the question, either.

            “Hey, man.” Sam stepped in between them, six-foot-four of wasted bravery. “You need…to back off.”

            “Who the hell are you?” The Giant demanded. He looked Sam up and down. “You drunk, buddy?”

            “I am _smashed_.” Sam said. He lifted his chin. “I could still kick your ass.”

            “All right, enough.” Dean put his back to The Giant and shoved a hand up against Sam’s shoulder. “Go take a walk, Sam.”

            “I can take him, Dean.” Sam said under his breath.

            “Yeah? Why you think I’m givin’ you the boot? Simmer down.”

            “Yeah, pansy, listen to your boyfriend.” The guy hooted, and a couple people snickered. Dean stiffened up.

            “Okay.” He looked over his shoulder. “That joke’s gettin’ really old, princess.”

            The guy crossed his massive arms. “Princess.”

            “Oh, hearing’s busted, huh? Do I need to say it louder?”

            “Try it. See what happens.”

            The girl hit her fists against her thighs. “Lain, stop!”

            Dean glanced at her. “You wanna get rid of this guy? Better bail.” She blinked huge eyes at him, backed away and then started elbowing her way through the chairs and tables to the door.

“Yeah, I’ll find you, bitch!” Lain called after her. Then he focused his attention on Dean. “I swear I’ll take you apart one piece at a time, chickenhawk. You don’t piss around with my woman. Understand?”

Dean turned around, stepped back and put his shoulder to Sam’s. “My brother’s right. You need to back off, _princess_.”

            Half a dozen chairs kicked back and the rest of the guy’s gang got to their feet. Dean’s eyes widened. He looked at Sam, who’d blanched.

            “Dude’s a biker. Sweet.”

            “Uh, Dean.”

            “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Dean shucked off his jacket. “So much for a siesta.” He stretched. “Meet you back at the Impala in ten?”

            Sam swallowed. “I’m seeing double.”

            “So hit whatever moves!” Dean muttered. “But Jax Teller’s mine.”

            “Jax—?”

            The Giant yanked up his barstool and threw it at Sam’s head. Dean shoved him out of the way and the fight was on.

            Dean’s training kicked in, dumping adrenaline into his veins. He dove in and went for throats, chests and crotches. Getting hand-to-hand combat training from a Marine dad meant he had a little bit of everything in his arsenal. But Dean was a brawler at heart, and that’s where this whole thing was headed. Breaking noses, snapping any hands that came at him, Dean punched a hole through to the guy who’d been bitching at his girlfriend.

            And damn did it feel good to be wailing on something for once that wasn’t a spirit, monster or his own damn brother. The fight was singing through Dean’s veins as he punched the guy straight on in the face, kneed him in the gut—made him puke up a mouthful of beer-juiced breath—clocked him on the back of the skull and threw him on the floor. He nailed him with a kick to the temple before the guy could shake the stars out of his eyes.

            “That hangover’s gonna be a bitch.” Dean shrugged into his jacket with one hand and smacked Sam’s arm with the other; his brother had just tossed one of the bikers into the counter and split his lip in half and another one was staggering around with his whole face gushing blood.

            “Let’s blow this joint.” He said, pushing Sam toward the door. Sam went, staggering, and Dean was right behind him, tossing a twenty onto the bar counter as the dazed bikers started dragging themselves to their feet. He surveyed their victory with a smug smile, threw out the sides of his jacket, spun around and stepped out.

            Sam was standing in the middle of the street, hands on his knees, laughing so hard his face was screwed up tight and no sounds came out of his mouth.

            “Dude, how’d you get that wasted?” Dean demanded, striding toward him. “We only had,” He paused, thought about it, then blinked a few times. “Okay, a lot of shots.” He grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled it around his shoulders. Sam leaned against him, shaking with laughter. “Guess this is a step up from the way you’ve been acting since the west coast.” Dean hauled Sam toward the car, almost got him to the shotgun seat, then lost his balance with Sam’s drunk swaying. “Okay! Okay, all right.” Dean lowered them both to the ground and sat Sam up against the side of the Impala. “We’re just gonna sit here. ’Til the freakin’ world stops spinning.” He blinked but that didn’t help his perspective much; he wobbled, crouched on his heels. “Ugh.”

            He slumped against the Impala beside his brother; Sam thumped his head back against the door, eyes closed, grinning.

            “That. Was _awesome_.” He laughed.

            “Yeah, Giggles, I get it. You’re wasted.”

            “ _No_. Dean, I’m serious. I mean, how _many_ times do we get to beat up _humans?_ ”

            “What, you’re saying you want to?”

            “Aw, man. C’mon. That was fun, right?”

            “I can’t believe I’m saying this. But yeah. You and me just had fun beating the crap out of a biker gang.” Dean rocked his head sideways and caught Sam looking at him. They both started laughing, Sam with abandon, Dean a little more reluctantly.

            “Christmas is in two days.” Sam commented after they stopped laughing.

            “Yup.”

            “I’m gonna buy you something. Like, something _huge_. Something so big we can’t…can’t even _fit_ it in the Impala.”

            “You find a couch that won’t fit in the Impala, you let me know.”

            “You wanna couch?”

            “Dude. I am _sick_ of motel beds.”

            “So why don’t we just sleep in the car?”

            “’Cause you whine like a little bitch when we do.” Dean pitched his voice higher. “‘This is my side of the front seat! Move your ass over!’’”

            “I don’t sound like that!”

            “The hell you don’t.”

            Sam smiled again, slightly. “If you think of something you want…let me know.”

            Dean reached up to rub the side of his neck and suddenly realized there was something missing. Actually, it’d been missing for over a year. But for some reason, right now, he really felt the fact that it wasn’t there.

            His freaking amulet.

            He let his hand drop back down onto the pavement. “Sure, whatever you say.”

            Sam turned his head to look at Dean. “You know you’re the best brother _ever_?”

            “Oh, dude, Sam, stop.”

            “ _What_?” Sam said, totally offended.

            “I’m wasted, but I ain’t _that_ wasted.”

            “Well, maybe _I am_.”

            “Then go to sleep or something.”

            “Okay.” Sam dropped his head sideways onto Dean’s shoulder.

            “Oh, come on. _Sam_!”

            “’Night, Dean.”

            “I hate you so much right now.”

            Sam picked his head up, dropped it hard back on Dean’s shoulder, and started snoring within a minute.

            “Dammit, you friggin’ lightweight. Do I look like a pillow?” Dean demanded through gritted teeth. Sam’s only response was to snore louder. Rolling his eyes, Dean propped his forehead on his fist and closed his eyes.

            Even though Sam was hot and heavy and his breath smelled like ass, Dean had had worse. The breeze was a pretty decent counterbalance and after a good rip-and-tear bar fight, it was good to just sit and relax as much as he could. At least the back of his head wasn’t throbbing anymore.

            His brain clearing up brought Dean back to the drinking game, though. That stupid game. And what Sam had said. Alien abductions without tricksters involved. _Faeries._ That was the case him and Sam had worked in Indiana a few weeks back. One of their last before Sam had gotten his soul back.

            Sam was starting to remember.

            Dean reached over and knuckled Sam’s forehead. “What’s goin’ on in that head’a yours, Sammy?”

            Sam shifted, getting comfortable, twitching a little in some alcohol-influenced dream. Dean hoped it was a damn good one. Something far away from this freezing cold street and this case.

            Dean tilted his head back and watched his breath blow out in clouds in front of his face, steaming up the window above him.

            The right hook came out of nowhere, connecting with Dean’s jaw and bashing him back against the Impala. His vision tripled, a constellation of stars expanding across his field of sight. He slumped, Sam’s head falling against his leg. He felt Sam startle awake a second before huge hands grabbed his shoulders and dragged him around and onto his feet.

            “I told you—” Punch to his face, splitting his lip. “I was going—” Punch to his eye socket, fracturing it. “To take you—” Punch to the forehead, biker ring tearing into his skin, flowing blood down into his good eye. “Apart!”

            The Giant whirled Dean around and slammed him chest-first onto the back of the Impala, pinning his arms back so hard his shoulders screamed fiery pain. Dean picked up his head an inch, blood dripping from his mouth onto the car, and caught sight of Sam. He was being restrained, one biker on each arm, fighting their hold like a tiger. _Good for you, Sammy_. Sam’s eyes were locked on him.

            “Dean!” He lunged against the bikers’ hold and one of them hit him so hard in the guts Sam threw up and almost dropped to his knees. He looked up through a shaggy forelock of dark hair. “Dean…”

            The Giant yanked Dean around and got him by the throat, pushing him up hard against the Impala’s bumper. Dean knew the look in this guy’s eyes—he’d seen it, hell, he’d seen it hundreds of times in his life. In demons, ghosts, poltergeists, wraiths, monsters, his own father, Sam, angels, _himself_. This guy was gonna kill him. And he was gonna enjoy it.

            “Do it, you fugly son of a bitch.” Dean said. If he could get the guy pissed, he could get him to screw up.

            Biker Ike tightened his grip, fingers digging into Dean’s carotid, ring leaving a rippling indent on his skin.

            Crap. Not gonna work.

            “No! Dean, no!” He heard Sam fighting back, scuffle sounds punctuated by a ringing impact in tandem with a cry of pain and the _thump_ of a body hitting the asphalt.

            Dean grabbed for The Giant’s hand, trying to pry it loose. “Sam…Sammy—!”

            Black swarmed the edges of his vision, tunneling. He choked. “Nng!” His limbs stopped responding to his commands, his body stopped fighting.

            At the last second, when Dean could seriously _feel_ the waxy blue of oxygen deprivation spreading across his features—the pressure released. He dropped like a stone, banging off the back of the Impala and hitting the ground rolling. He grabbed for his throat, still feeling The Giant’s grip, the bruise forming where the ring had dug in. Dammit. He’d been two seconds from serious, deep-ass trouble.

            The next thing he knew, hands were grabbing his shoulders, sitting up him. Something warm touched his forehead, grabbed the sides of his neck and held his head in place. “Dean. Dean? Hey!”

            “Ugh.” He grunted. His throat was still burning.

            “C’mon, man, look at me! Dean!”

            “He needs your help to breathe. Here.” Dean felt hands stripping his jacket off—someone else’s hands, because Sam’s were still holding his head. Then a touch, firm and steady, moved across his throat, rubbing circles, loosening the knots his muscles had formed around the biker’s hands. “Do it just like that.”

            The unfamiliar touch was replaced with the feel of Sam’s fingers. God. How many times had his little brother patched him up?

            “Dean.” Sam’s free hand grabbed the back of his head. “You with me?”

            “Uh. Yeah.” The rictus under his skin let up enough for him to speak.

            “All right, great. Open your eyes.”

            Dean obliged, slowly, squinting against the streetlights. Only one eye would really open, the other swollen shut. “Feel like crap, Sammy.”

            “You look like it.” Sam let up on the throat massage. “What hurts?”

            “This whole thing.” Dean picked up a deadweight hand and pointed to his face. “I might throw up on ya.”

            Sam chuckled. “Try not to.”

            Dean peered at him and saw the gash on Sam’s forehead leaking scarlet into his hair. “Tell me you kicked their asses.”

            “I was down for the count.” Sam picked up Dean’s discarded jacket and held it up questioningly. When Dean nodded, Sam used it to stanch the blood-flow from his forehead. “Next thing I know the bikers were running with their tails tucked. And there’s this guy here.”

            “Who the hell was it?”

            “It was me.” The gruff voice responded, and Dean looked up at see some guy crossing the street toward them, wearing jeans and a hoodie. Hood up. “They weren’t expecting to face someone with a gun. But they’ll be back, probably with guns of their own. We need to get you out of here.”

            He stopped beside them and pushed the hood back, sweeping the street with his gaze and finally looking down at them.

            Dean felt a jolt from the top of his head to his fingertips, electric, setting his hair on end. Sam scrambled to sit up straight beside him, like a kid soldier snapping to attention when he saw his superior officer.

            Dean was just frozen. Except for one hand, curling over into a fist against the street. And his jaw, slipping open, then snapping shut again.

            And finally he just said it:

            “ _Dad_?”

 

           

 


	5. Chapter 5

_December 24 th, 2011_

_Crowder’s Pub, Vermilion, Ohio_

Sam’s world tipped upside-down.

            Crouching on the curb, holding Dean up, still a little dizzy with alcohol. His head already felt like it was going to rip apart on the seams, too much pressure and too much going on for him to handle. And now this. Now he was sitting with Dean half-leaning against him, staring up at their dad, looking the way Sam remembered him: tall, his feathery dark hair matted, a couple days scruffy and tired. Always tired. Like time had carved lines into his face.

            Standing _right there_ , so close Sam could’ve reached out and grabbed him.

            Dean’s voice broke the silence, breathless, a little garbled from his split lip and the blood in his mouth. “Dad?”

            John walked over and crouched beside them, gun held loose in his hand. A gentle smile on his face, he reached out and rested his free hand on Dean’s cheek. “Hey, kiddo.”

            Sam looked away as Dean leaned into his father’s touch, eyes closed. Fighting his own feelings that didn’t want to be suppressed. He pulled in a couple deep breaths through his nostrils, and finally looked back. “Dad.”

            John looked at him, something deep and sad flickering in his gaze. “Sammy.”

            Sam felt something ripple through his arm, the one Dean was leaning against, and then Dean slumped.

            “Hey! Dean!” Sam grabbed him around the chest, supporting him, and John was on his feet in a second.

            “Here. We need to get him into the car.” He went around the Impala and opened the door to the backseat, then lifted Dean’s legs and helped Sam maneuver him so that he was lying comfortably on the seat. Sam made a pillow out of Dean’s jacket for his head, shutting the door gently as he climbed back out.

            “Your brother been letting you drive?” John asked as they stood with the frigid wind whipping past them. Sam stared at his dad and his guts jumped and tangled in his throat. He put a hand against the car to steady himself, but the sour purge didn’t die out. Sam barely made it to the edge of the grassy verge before his stomach emptied of whatever was left after the altercation with the bikers.

            And then, the weirdest thing, something he hadn’t felt in—God, in years.

            His dad helping him sit up, fingers tugging roughly through Sam’s hair. Tugging it out of his eyes like he was six years old lying on the motel floor, sick from food poisoning again.

            “Easy. Just take it easy, Sammy. I got you and everything’s gonna be just fine.”

            Sam grabbed his dad’s arm and looked him in the eyes—eyes just like his. “How? How are you—?”

            “It’s a long story.” John said. “What d’you say we save it for another time? You need a little TLC.” He thumb brushed the edge of the stinging gash on Sam’s forehead. “You and your brother both.” He stood and hauled Sam to his feet, steadying him with one hand on his arm, the other on his shoulder. “You should probably let me drive.”

            Sam fished the keys out of his pocket and handed them to John. He was able to make it to the shotgun seat before his stomach started rioting; sitting with his legs out the door, head hanging to his knees, Sam vomited on the curb.

            “You gonna be okay for the drive, Sam?” John asked as he got into the driver’s seat. Sam rested his chin on the back of the seat and looked at Dean, one arm sprawled across his chest, oozing blood from his face. He was getting pale.

            “We need to go.” Sam said thickly, spitting up a clump of mucous and swinging his legs inside, slamming the door.

            “Tell me where I’m driving.” John said, starting the car, running his hands almost reverently over the steering wheel. Sam fired off the address for the Wayside Inn and then cranked his window down and leaned his head back, letting the cold wind calm his stomach and dry the sweat on his clammy skin.

            The wind couldn’t blow away the questions. They were eating him inside.

            They made it to the motel in one piece, although Sam felt like he was fragmenting. He was shaking and barely made it to their room on the second floor, stopping to rest at the top while John made steady progress behind him, Dean’s arm across his shoulders. Sam opened the door and kicked their weapons’ duffle into the corner, clearing a path to the bed.

            John lowered Dean gently onto the comforter, and that woke him up a little. Dean groaned, head rolling from side to side. John sat beside him, pulling Dean’s head onto his lap, and looked up at Sam with an expression of stomach-ripping anguish that made Sam’s throat swell shut.

            “Bring me a rag, Sam.”

            Sam knew the routine; hunting as a family for years had drilled it deeper than his own blood into his body. He went into the bathroom, soaked a towel in warm water and brought it out to their dad. John started cleaning off all the blood on Dean’s face, and Sam just sat on the bed across from him, mute, wrists hanging on his knees. His hair stuck to the gash on his forehead but he barely felt it, any of it, silent and sentient, just drinking in the sight of his father. Knowing there was no way this was a demon, because John was—had been—in heaven.

            Sam finally cleared his throat. “He’s gonna be all right. Isn’t he?”

            “You know your brother, Sam. A biker gang? It’d take more than a crackshot with a good grip to stop him.”

            Sam smiled reluctantly. “Thanks. For saving us back there.”

            “You think I wouldn’t?” John met Sam’s eyes with a faint challenge in his. The kind that usually led to a fight. But Sam was so drained, worn-out, beat down and pieced back together and so _hungover_ right now that he wasn’t going to fight anyone or anything.

            “Right.” He lowered himself onto his back, hands folded on his chest, and closed his eyes, listening to the ceiling fan whirring and the splash as John rung the bloody rag out into the glass on the bedside table.

            Sam drifted in and out for a few minutes, then blinked his eyes open and found his dad sitting on the bed beside his head, carefully dabbing at the edges of Sam’s wound. There was a tenderness in his eyes Sam hadn’t seen more than once or twice—before. For some reason tonight felt like making up for lost time.

            “You hurting, Sammy?” John asked gently.

            A rock the size of a fist lodged in Sam’s throat. “I went to Hell, dad.”

            It wasn’t what John had meant; Sam knew that. But for some reason he felt like Dean knowing, and Bobby knowing, and Castiel—it wasn’t enough. Them, he could talk to. He had, when he could. But the person he’d always wanted to talk to about this was his father. It was John.

            John dropped the rag into his lap and looked at Sam closely; then he grabbed a fistful of Sam’s shirt, hauled him up until he was sitting, and pulled him into a hug so tight it hurt every part of Sam that was already hurting.

            He grabbed the back of his dad’s jacket and held on, eyes, throat burning, head throbbing, still a little drunk, still dizzy, broken, put-back-together. He was a mess.

            John’s hand caressed his hair comfortingly. “I know, Sammy. I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry your brother and I couldn’t save you from that. It was our job, Sammy. We screwed it up. We both did.”

            “I asked to do it.” Sam’s voice broke, his chin resting on John’s shoulder.

            “Sam.” John sighed. “You never should’ve had to.”

            Sam wanted to argue that; that mom had died, Jessica had died, because Sam had been walking down that road his whole life. But there weren’t words for it, none that he could think of the way he was right now, anyway.

            John finally set him back at arm’s length. “How about you let me take care of that head of yours?”

            “Do I have to?” Sam asked with half a smile. “I just wanna sleep, dad.”

            “Not happening. Not with that concussion.”

            Sam groaned and mashed the heel of his hand against his eye. “Had to be when I have a hangover.”

            “Whose fault is that?” John headed for the bathroom. “It’s just for a few hours.”

            “Easy for you to say.” Sam muttered. He looked over at Dean, who was lying face-down on the pillows now. His face was completely swollen on one side; seeing him that way reminded Sam of the cemetery. Of shoving his way through Lucifer’s hold, staggering back, the world swirling into focus in front of him. And Dean, lying there at his feet, looking—he’d looked afraid. Afraid that Sam—no, Lucifer—that _Lucifer_ was letting up for a second because the worst was about to come.

            It had shattered whatever part of Sam had been keeping together all these years while they were fighting, whatever pieces were left after Jessica and mom and dad, Ash, Pamela, Ellen, Jo, Madison, after Ruby had betrayed him, after the demon blood, after Lucifer had broken free. After he’d said goodbye to Bobby and Castiel, and then watched them die. Seeing his brother scared of him, scared that Sam was going to kill him…that had guillotined Sam’s resolve. Butchered him.

            Seeing Dean right now took him right back there. Even knowing he’d done everything he could to break free and fight for his brother, then and now. It still hurt.

            John walked out of the bathroom and tackled Sam’s wound without a word, cleaning it out, using the first-aid kit in the duffle bag to put together a makeshift bandage with gauze and tape. The kind that would probably disintegrate within the first few days. And Sam let him do it anyway, without complaining once. By the time he was patched up, the headache had risen in crescendo, and it wasn’t just from the drinking. Sam rubbed a fist against his temple.

            “Uh, dad, there’s a bottle of pills in the bag.” He said as John tucked the first-aid kit back under their change of clothes in the duffle. “Could you—?”

            John tossed the bottle over his shoulder. Sam popped the top and downed two, leaning against the headboard of the bed with his eyes closed until the headache started to simmer out. By then he was drowsy, warm, and no longer feeling any pain from his head-wound.

            “None of that, son.” John’s weight depressed the foot of the bed. “You talk to me. Stay awake. I don’t like that headache or the way you were throwing up.”

            “I’m fine.” Sam insisted. “Just tired.

            A pause. “You really wanna start this _now_ , Sam?”

            Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

            John was sitting back-on to him, face buried in his hands, shoulders hunched. He looked tired and deflated, the way he always had after a hunt. A part of Sam felt like this was a dream—like he was still asleep on the ground beside the Impala, and if he moved too fast or even blinked, it would vaporize.

            He tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling. “So, what dragged you out?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Out of _heaven_ , dad. Who brought you back?” Sam hesitated. “Was it Castiel?”

            “No. No, it wasn’t any angel.”

            So, John knew about Castiel. Interesting.

            “Then _what_?” Sam sat forward slightly.

            “Sam, I don’t know. I got pulled down from a perfect corner of the world with your mother. One minute I was with her, the next, I was waking up in the middle of a street in Lawrence. No scars. Body as good as new. I’ve been looking for answers.”

            “Lawrence.” Sam said flatly. “Dad, have you been sleeping?”

            “When I get the chance. You know how the job is.”

            “You feel all right? Nothing’s…kind of off?”

            “No more than usual.”

            Sam deflated back against the headboard. Sleeping was enough. If his father was sleeping, and feeling, then he had a soul.

            But had Crowley dragged him back out the same way he’d brought back Sam’s grandfather, and Sam himself? And if so, then _why_?

            Sam let his eyes slide closed. He was so tired—

            He was in a tunnel.

            Sam put his hand to the wall, blinking, variations of slanting light and blackness crossing in his vision, making him feel lightheaded. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew fear and death bled straight out of these walls. It choked him, bogging him down, suffocating him.

            Somewhere ahead of him, he heard a cry. Male. Human.

            “ _Sam_?”

            “Dean.” Sam picked up his head; he didn’t know who else it could be. “ _Dean_?”

            “Sam, where are you?”

            “I’m…nng!” Sam took a step and went down on one knee, his right leg giving out. A metronome of pain gonged across his body and he sank against the wall; he felt the blood soaking through his skin, dappling his pantleg, but when he looked there was nothing but starchy, sweat-stiffened denim.

            He heard footsteps further up the tunnel. “Sam? Are you down here?”

            Not Dean. There was something similar in the voice, but it wasn’t him.

            And then a shivering tangle of light fell across the face of the person standing further up the tunnel. And for whatever reason, Sam felt relief.

            “Adam!”

            “Sam, they got you?” Adam demanded, hurrying toward him. He crouched and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Where?”

            “My leg.” Sam gestured.

            “Oh, no. Come on!” Adam grabbed Sam’s arm and helped him to his feet. Hobbling, half-hopping to spare his injured leg, Sam followed Adam deeper into the twist of tunnels going nowhere. Some part of him felt like this shouldn’t make sense. But it did. All of it. In some way that was horrible, sick, sitting like iron in his body. It made sense. Adam. The tunnel. Everything.

            Sam kept moving, just kept telling himself that maybe he could run far and fast enough, find a door, claw his way out. Back to the world. Back to free air and sunlight. And Dean. He wanted to find his brother and collapse and never get up, and if he could just die, just _die_ already after seeing Dean one more time, just to apologize, just to say he was sorry—that would be enough.

            He’d wanted blackness, forever. Soft and supportive. Not this. Not for Adam. Not for himself. Not for anyone.

            The tunnel climbed steeply under their feet, and Sam’s knees buckled, sending him and Adam both staggering against the wall. As they fell, Sam put out his hand to steady himself—grabbing Adam’s side by accident. Feeling the flaky, icy coldness of his flesh.

            Adam landed hard and Sam pushed away, back toward the opposite wall, slumping against it, breathing hard and fast. Adam rebounded to his feet, eyes wide, panicked, looking over his shoulder.

            “Sam, we have to hurry! They’re coming!”

            “Where’s Adam, you son of a bitch?” Sam snarled.  Ringing silence followed. “ _Where is my brother_?”

            Adam looked at him, and a faint, sadistic smile tipped his lips. He rubbed a hand over his face and the illusion dissolved.

            “Well done, Sam. That was quicker than before.”

            “ _Where_. _Is he?_ ” Sam reiterated.

            “I’m embarrassed to say it, but I seem to have misplaced him.” Lucifer steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips. “It’s a large maze, you know.”

            A thrill of vindictive pleasure shot through Sam’s body. “Michael hid him.”

            “That brother of mine.” Lucifer shook his head. “Quite the sense of humor.” Lucifer circled Sam, looking down at his leg. “Not looking so hot there yourself, Sam.”

            Sam held his ground, and his silence.

            “You know, this place was so boring before you and Adam and my brother came along.” Lucifer said. “Always the same thing, over and over again. Day after day. Century after century. But now it’s something new every day. And I’m doing it all for you, Sam.”

            “Go to Hell.” Sam spat.

            “Mm. As far as comebacks go, you’ve had better. In case you hadn’t realized, Sam,” Lucifer raised a hand very slowly. “We’re already here.”

            Sam pinioned upright, hands gripping the blanket, spitting out breath through clenched teeth. Terror racked every corner of his body; his shirt was sticking to his body with sweat. When he blinked, the impressions of tunnel walls pressed against the backs of his eyelids. Sam yanked up the leg of his jeans just to make sure there was nothing there on his leg—no blood, no wound, nothing.

            “Guh.” Sam dropped back down on the pillows and pressed his hands hard against his face, trying to block out the images, the headache, everything. The feeling like he needed to find Adam, protect him, was still circuited so deep into his brain and his soul that he just needed to get out, _run_ , find his younger brother.

            Even knowing that Adam was locked in that Cage. Trapped in those tunnels forever. With Michael’s meager, hot-and-cold loyalty to his promises and Lucifer’s whims that could change those four walls into anything. Make you believe you were anywhere. And that was just the surface. It was just the surface of what Sam had scratched. What he’d dreamed.

            He grabbed the pill bottle and took a couple more, since the edge was back on his headache. He checked the bedside clock—quarter after six. Early, but Dean was still asleep, so he had time to—

            Everything else flooded back like whiplash. The case, the bar fight, Dean getting the crap beat out of him, _dad_.

            Their dad was gone.

            Sam got to his feet, hurried to the window and twitched the drapes aside; the Impala was still there. So he either he was in the motel or John had run out on them on foot. And Sam wasn’t in the mood to chase him.

            Bedsprings creaked as Dean shifted suddenly, arms sliding out from under the pillows. He picked up his head. “Sam.” Then he sat up, fast. “Sam!”

            “Whoa. Easy, Dean.” Sam stepped into his brother’s one-eyed line of sight, hands held up in a ‘calm down’ gesture. “Right here.”

            “Dude, what the hell hit us last night?” Dean demanded.

            “Biker gang.” Sam admitted, sinking onto the bed across from Dean’s. “How’re you feeling?”

            “Like a bucket full’a sunshine.” Dean ran his hands shakily back through his hair. “Man, I had a crazy dream.”

            “It was real.” Sam cut him off.

            Dean dropped his hands and peered at Sam with confusion. “So I’m married to that Rachel chick from One Tree Hill?” Sam pulled a classic Give-It-A-Rest look and Dean twitched a hesitant smile toward him, then got serious. “So I wasn’t just imagining that—?”

            “Dad’s back.”

            Dean’s eyes widened slightly. “Right. ’Cause dead guys come droppin’ outta heaven all the time.”

            “Dean. It’s him. I can feel it.”

            “Okay, Luke, you use that Force. And while you’re doin’ that—” Dean started to get to his feet, then stopped and winced. “You wanna grab me that duffle bag?”

            Sam obliged, tossing the bag onto the bed beside Dean. “Don’t strain yourself.”

            “Shut up.” Dean unzipped the bag and pulled out a flask of holy water. “You get some alone time with him after I kicked it in last night?” Sam nodded. “And?”

            “And?” Sam echoed challengingly.

            “He _say_ anything?”

            “Yeah, Dean. We told stories about Hell. You should’ve been awake. It was great.”

            “Man, don’t bite my head off.”

            Sam raked his hands back through his hair. “Whatever.”

            The door opened behind him on well-oiled hinges. Sam was on his feet in a second but Dean stayed sitting, flask of holy water clapped between his palms, hidden. Sam shot him a Don’t-You-Dare look. Dean ignored it.

            “Where’d you go?” Sam asked as casually as he could, turning his back on Dean.

            “Out for food. You boys don’t stay stocked anymore, do you?” John turned, caught sight of Dean, and went incredibly still, like he was looking at him for the first time. Sam cut a glance toward Dean and saw him sit up straighter—a soldier at attention again. It chafed at something inside of Sam, seeing Dean reacting that way.

            John’s face softened. “Hey, Dune.”

            “Not that again.” Dean said, laughing breathlessly. “C’mon, dad…you only call me that when one of us is dying.”

            “Not today.” John reached out a hand toward Dean, and Dean moved quickly, uncorking the holy water and tossing it in John’s face. Sam jumped back to avoid the spray, sitting down hard on the bed.

            John stood there, face dripping, expression bemused. Then he smiled. “Who taught you to throw a flask like that?”

            “My dad.”

            “Smart man.” John grabbed Dean’s unresisting arm and hauled him to his feet. Then he gripped him by the biceps and looked him up and down. “Damn, son. You…you grew up. You grew up just fine.”

            Sam saw the war in Dean’s eyes, instinct against heart. Dean wanted to believe this as badly as Sam did. Even if it defied logic. Even if it went against reason and everything they’d been taught to believe.

            “This really you?” Dean asked, stripped of his defenses.

            John heaved an exasperated sigh. “Dean Matthew Winchester. I held you in my arms for the first time January twenty-fourth, nineteen-seventy-nine. You were about…the most perfect thing I’d ever seen.” He gave Dean a little shake and looked at Sam. “Samuel John Winchester. You were born a couple weeks later than we expected—May second, nineteen-eighty-three. Your brother almost dropped you on your head first time we let him hold you. You were off-limits after that.”

            Sam blinked rapidly. “What are you?”

            “Alive?” John released Dean and stepped back. “Somehow, alive. Not sure what brought me back. But here I am.”

            “Not a Revenant?” Dean demanded.

            “Dean. Do I look out of my mind with revenge to you?” John sounded a little frustrated now. “Son, it’s _me_. We can ask the how’s and why’s later, but right now we’ve got a case to handle.”

            “Speaking of cases.” Dean slipped from defenseless to focused within a few seconds. “That hunter wastin’ those monsters in the Midwest. That was you.”

            “Yeah.”

            “I figured.” Dean walked toward the window, resting his head and one hand against the wall. Sam looked at him worriedly, than back to his dad.

            “The coordinates?”

            “I couldn’t risk a phone call. Not with the thing we’re dealing with here. I knew that message would get you two here, and I needed the back-up.”

            “So why the hell didn’t you meet up with us before?” Dean swung around to face them. “How long you been back?” John stayed quiet and Dean straightened. “ _Dad_? How freakin’ long?”

            “A few weeks.” John looked at Dean. “I woke up outside the house in Lawrence and stepped right into a case. Ghouls. A whole pack of them. It’s been nonstop ever since. And I wanted to find you both. I did. But there was too much at stake.”

            “And you thought we’d screw it up?” Sam demanded.

            “I didn’t want to run the risk of us stepping all over each other.” John said firmly. “Look at you two. You’re a team now. A well-oiled machine. Adding a third wheel to that would throw everything out of synch. I couldn’t risk it.”

            “Still trying to make decisions for us?” Sam asked belligerently. “You think we wouldn’t want to know you were _back_ , dad?”

            “I knew it would cloud your judgment.”

            “To hell with _judgment_! It’s been _years_ , you don’t think we deserve a little—?”

            “Sam.” Dean interrupted quietly. “That’s enough.”

            “You’re taking _his_ side?” Sam snapped, gaze riveted on John.

            “I’m just saying, stop. Just stop it. Both of you.”

            Sam tore his eyes reluctantly from his father’s stormy expression to look at Dean; he was going pale, leaning hard against the wall. Concern overwhelmed Sam, squeezing out the frustration. “Dean?”

            “Oh, dude.” Dean closed his eyes. “This is like the freakin’ hospital all over again.” He curled an arm around his ribs and looked up at them both. “Sam’s right, dad. This is family. We’re a team.” He laughed a little, breathlessly. “Can’t get rid of us that easy.” He grimaced. “So, you gonna tell us what’s out there?”

            John ruffled a hand back through his dark hair, then sat on Dean’s vacated bed. Sam shifted toward him, feeling like he was eleven years old again, about to get a lesson.

            “A few days ago,” John said quietly. “A kid died drinking mouthwash. Now, it’s not unheard of. But while I was following the werewolves, I picked up on more deaths. People dropping like flies. Like this city is a deathtrap.”

            “So it’s the city itself?” Sam asked.

            “No, Sammy, it’s what’s living inside it.” John said darkly. “It’s rare, but some creatures—not spirits or demons, but monsters—can influence human will. I’ve seen it happen. Sirens, for one. And I think that’s what we’re dealing with.”

            “Okay.” Sam nodded, going along with it. “So if it’s a monster, how’s it killing people? Last time I checked, _mouthwash_ wasn’t exactly a monster’s weapon of choice.”

            John smiled faintly. “It’s not the way they died, Sam. It’s what happened right before that.” He rubbed his hands together. “I double and triple-checked the stories. Every person who died was the victim of a promise.”

            Silence, for a few seconds.

            “A promise.” Dean echoed. “What, like they swore to do something, and then they _had_ to do it?”

            Sam laughed once, sharply, with disbelief. “Dean, it makes sense.” He met his brother’s incredulous glance. “Alen Ormond. You said she _swore_ her brother would die if he drank the mouthwash. Kevin said he’d strangle Bryce if he kept crying.”

            “The biker at the bar promised to take you apart.” John added.

            “Oh, that’s great. So they can’t do anything about it once they make a promise? This whole town’s gonna kill itself!” Dean said.

            “Luckily, not all of the promises are death threats.” John said. “I’ve been able to pick up a pattern: bad dates, pranks, food poisoning. There are trigger words: _I swear_ , or _I promise_. But the more people die from this, the more it seems like the monster’s powers are growing. Whatever this thing is, it’s feeding off of the chaos here. When people make the promises, it seems to—somehow give the monster, permission to work its way into the situation.”

            “What happens when it gains power?” Sam rested his elbows on his knees.

            “Theoretically, the influence spreads.” John replied. “More casual phrases could be included under its jurisdiction. I’ll know more when I’ve done some research.”

            “Yeah, ’cause that’s not stealing our thunder.” Dean muttered.

            “Cool it down, Dean.” John said, getting to his feet. “I called you two here for a reason. I can’t handle this hunt alone. But I need you both on your guard; watch each other’s backs. I have some things to take care of, but I’ll be back soon.” He headed for the door, stopped and looked back. “Whatever you do, don’t make any promises.”

            “We won’t.” They chorused, and Sam winced, feeling like he was eight again, copying his big brother. John smiled with a slight nod, hand on the doorknob.

            “It’s good to see you boys again.” He said, and let himself out, leaving the convenience-store bag of food on top of the television set.

            “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Dean asked after a few seconds.

            “I dunno, Dean. I’m not a mind-reader.”

            “Something’s up, Sam.” Dean said. “We got Purgatory closed, but we both know a lot of nasty stuff probably slipped through the door. We might be starin’ one of those uglies right in the face.”

            “Well, it’s like Bobby taught us: every piece of lore starts somewhere.”

            “Yeah, yeah. Just ’cause you haven’t seen it yet doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” Dean dropped his arm from around his ribs and sighed. “You up for some research?”

            Sam blinked. “The fact that you’re asking to study something is—kinda creepy.”

            “Desperate times, Sammy.” Dean flung himself down on the empty bed, pulling the laptop out of the duffle bag and balancing it on his knees. While it was booting up, he glanced at the door. Sam could see the wheels clunking in his brother’s mind. “So. Dad’s back.” His eyes slid toward Sam. “You don’t look that surprised.”

            “Just shell-shocked, I guess.”

            “Uh-huh.” Dean scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, somethin’ ain’t right here.” He shot another look toward the door. “Let ya know when I figure out what it is.”

            “Promise?” Sam half-smiled.

            “Oh, that’s just mean, Sam.”

            Still smiling, Sam went for the food bag and pawed through it, pulling out a couple cellophane-wrapped muffins. “You want blueberry or—?” He turned back to face Dean and stopped dead in his tracks.

            Reflecting in the mirror hanging above the two beds, Lucifer smiled at him.

            Dean looked up. “Blueberry or _what_?”

            Sam did something very un-Sam-like, then.

            He didn’t say a word.

         

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

_December 24 th, 2011_

_Wayside Inn, Vermilion, Ohio_

“You know what they got on here, Sam? Jack _squat_.”

            Sam glanced up from the television. “I thought we knew that would happen. It’s a new monster, Dean. No lore out there.”

Dean banged the laptop shut and looked at Sam with angry eyes. “I’m talkin’ about _dad_ , Sam. Demon possessions, spirits takin’ over, that stuff’s everywhere. I can’t find anything about a soul droppin’ outta heaven.”

“Maybe he didn’t just drop.” Sam said, fingers toying with the remote. Dean waited for him to say something, but Sam didn’t seem to be in the sharing mood.

“Okay, you wanna let the class in on your secret?” Dean prompted.

Sam set the remote down and crossed his arms. “Crowley pulled Samuel out of heaven. He could’ve done the same for dad. I’m just not sure why he would.”

Dean hated saying this, hated thinking it, but: “Maybe ’cause he lost his perfect little soldier.” Sam glanced at him, clearly confused. “ _You_ , genius. Without a soul, man, you were Crowley’s favorite piece’a game. Maybe he wants dad to fill your huge moose shoes, y’know, be his errand boy.”        

Sam’s jaw hardened. “Dad wouldn’t do it.”

“Yeah, normally I’d agree with you, pal. But I still got this feelin’, like,” Dean broke off, shaking his head.

“Like what?”

He shrugged, looking away. “Like there’s some part of this we’re just not seeing, Sam. Like we’ve got blinders on. And in this business? What you don’t know—”

“Will come out of the dark, eat you alive, and spit you back out again.” Sam finished, obviously annoyed.

“Exactly.” Dean opened the laptop and started flipping through Google again, even though he’d already gone through fifty pages with nothing promising. “Guess we keep diggin’.” He looked over the top of the computer, at the television; it was muted and Sam was channel-surfing. He’d been sitting on this one screen for a while, though. “General Hospital?” Dean said skeptically. “Talk about a guilty pleasure.”

“What?” Sam startled slightly, glancing his way. “What are you talking about?”

“Dude. You’ve been creepin’ on Andy Archer for five minutes.” Dean craned his neck for a better look at the screen. “Hey, isn’t this the episode where he dies?”

“Thanks for the spoiler.” Sam said sarcastically, flipping channels.

“He also doesn’t sleep with Kelly.”

“Whose guilty pleasure are we talking about?”

Dean smirked, going back to the computer, letting Sam get back to his business. But he was keeping on ear toward his brother, so he noticed when the remote stopped clicking. Again.

Without peeling his gaze from the laptop, Dean said, “Hey, if you’re just gonna space out, gimmie the remote. Bet there’s some great stuff On Demand in a joint like this.”

“You’re working. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Work’s for geeks and losers.” Dean shut the laptop again. “’Sides, there’s nothin’ good out there. I give up.”

“Here, let me see it.” Sam held out a hand and Dean passed him the laptop.

“Think you can do better?”

“I think you need to get off dad’s case and start researching monsters.” Sam replied evenly.

“Lame. Boring.” Dean got up, walked into the bathroom and flicked the light on, taking a look at himself: swollen eye from a fractured socket, split lip, gash on his forehead. He looked like hell—felt like it, too. He splashed cold water on his face—it burned like dry ice on his bare skin—and toweled off.

By the time he walked back out, Sam had something. Figured.

“All right, so, monsters. They all have some kind of weakness, right?” Sam said the minute Dean emerged from the bathroom. “Silver bullets, iron, bronze. My guess is, that Mother Bobby found lore on—she _can’t_ create invincible monsters. They all build off of a kind of…monster formula.”

“Not sure I’m followin’ ya.” Dean sat on the bed beside Sam.

“All right, uh, Skinwalkers. Cousins of a werewolf. Lore says, Skinwalkers came first. Which means werewolves are some kind of…evolution within a species.”

“So what’s this promise monster we’re dealin’ with?”

“Well, dad mentioned Sirens, and that got me thinking: the murders are playing out by compulsion. The people can’t stop what’s happening. Same way with a Siren—they don’t really see what they’re doing as _wrong_ until it’s already happened. I think the Siren is the mold we’re looking at. But instead of using a man’s lust against him—”

“It holds ’em to a promise.”

“Exactly.”

“Great. So what’s the catch?”

“You mean the vulnerability?” Sam asked. Dean nodded. “Well, if everything else fits the mold, then a bronze dagger _should_ do the job.”

“Pretty big ‘if’, Sam. How long’d it take you to come up with that?”

“About an hour. I was waiting for the laptop.”

“You coulda asked.”

“You would’ve bit my head off.”

“Yeah, so? Still coulda asked.”

Sam rolled his eyes and looked back down at the computer screen. “You know, if this started like the Siren legends, we may need to look near the lake. It could be a water mythos.”

“There you go with that big ‘if’ again.”

“Dean, it’s all we’ve got.”

Dean’s mouth turned down at the corners and he nodded.” So how do you we—?”

His phone started ringing, cutting off the end of the question. Dean grabbed his jacket off the floor at the foot of the bed and connected the call. “This is Dean.”

“Dean, it’s me.”

“Dad.” Dean said, alerting Sam. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I need you boys to meet me. At the docks out on the lake. I’ll explain everything there.” John sounded rushed, harried. Dean’s skin prickled.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“The research I was doing checked out.” John said, and the call went dead.

Sam was already on his feet as Dean knocked the phone against his lips and stared at the wall, mulling over the curdling feeling in his guts.

“What’d he say?” Sam asked, yanking on his jacket.

“You don’t think it’s a little weird how he’s _asking_ for our help?” Dean turned to face him, frowning. “Sam, the man’s been cutting us out of his hunts since we were kids. Why’s he all touchy-feely all of a sudden?”

“Dean, he’s been _dead_ for five years.” Sam said frankly. “Maybe he missed us as much as we missed him.”

“Sammy. He was in Heaven. He had mom, he had…everything he wanted.” Dean said quietly. “Y’know, this, us, this family…it meant a lot to him. But you didn’t know him before she died. He was happy, man. If he lost that again, he wouldn’t be throwin’ a reunion party. He’d be looking for a way back.”

“Dad _loved us_ , Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean looked past Sam, avoiding his intent gaze. “Well, I can tell you one thing. He loved her more.”

 

 

The text message with the address appeared in Dean’s inbox when they were two minutes away. He and Sam drove to the location, got out and walked down the mossy, wobbly pier to join their father, who was leaning against the railing at the end. Jacket and hair wind-whipped, he looked like he hadn’t been gone for a day, scrap five years. It gnawed at something inside of Dean; he came to grips with this kind of stuff, and then people kept popping back up in his life. Dead people. Sort-of-dead.

Dean glanced at Sam, dug his hands into his pockets and stopped behind John, with Sam flanking him.

“All right, we’re here.” Dean shrugged, lifting his elbows out from his body. “What’s goin’ on, dad?”

John’s body swelled with a deep breath and he turned to face them. “I followed every trail I could find. They all led back here.”

“To the lake?” Dean asked.

“Uh-huh.” John looked from Sam to Dean and back again. “You boys bring any weapons?”

“We lost our bronze knife in a fire.” Sam said.

“Bronze.” John echoed.

“Sam here figures this thing’s a Siren’s cousin.” Dean said, shifting from foot to foot. “Might have the same weak spot.”

“Good job, Sam.” John nodded to his younger son. “But remember the lore. Sirens can take human form, but that wasn’t always the case. They’re water spirits; makes them susceptible to bronze. But this is a new monster, means no evolution. Yet. So it’s operating inside its criteria. Land-hopper. What works better on warm-blooded monsters?”

“Silver.” Sam and Dean said harmony.

John nodded. “You still have your silver bullets?”

“Most of them are gone. But there’s a silver knife.” Sam said.

“You have it with you?”

“It’s in the trunk.”

“Good. Grab it. The trail starts just off the street.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam headed back to the Impala but Dean stayed, walking over to lean against the railing beside John, elbows resting on the railing, hands clasped. With his arms crossed, John looked over at Dean sideways.

“Something on your mind, son?”

“Just wonderin’ if Sam got it right. Y’know, which mythology is this thing pulling from? Siren? Warm-blood? I mean, what the hell?”

“Who says it can’t have attributes of both?”

“Makes our job harder.” Dean squinted at John.

“It means more susceptibility, Dean. More chinks in the armor.” John bowed his head for a second, then looked out across the choppy gray water of Lake Erie. “I don’t know everything there is to know about the Mother of All. I know she’s bad news. That she’s been birthing monsters for centuries. I know her monsters are a pain in our asses, and sometimes they slip out of the pit and come topside. But she can only bend the rules so far. She can’t create something invincible.”

Dean chuckled quietly, and John smiled.

“What’s so funny?”

“You and Sam, you, uh…your brains are still on the same wavelength.” Dean answered. His throat hitched for a second, and he bowed his head. “Dad, why didn’t you ever call me?”

“Dean, I already told you—”

“Man, I needed you.” Dean straightened up, put his back against the railing, hands gripping the cold metal behind him, and met John’s dark eyes. “Sam was in Hell for a year. I was chasin’ my tail half the time. Nothing made sense. You know how many times I crashed so hard at night just wishin’ I had you around?”

“Dean, even if I _had_ been there,” John said sharply. “What do you think that would’ve changed?”

“You coulda helped! Y’know, I had _nothing_. All right, I had Lisa. But she didn’t get it. Dad, she thought I was outta my mind. And maybe I was. But you woulda got it.”

“No, Dean. You know what would have happened?” John asked, voice pitched low, fierce. “You would’ve done what I did. Drank yourself into a stupor to forget the pain. Taken it out on anyone and anything that crossed your path. Ruined relationships, broken everyone’s trust in you. You would’ve let down the people you cared about.” John reached over suddenly and gripped Dean’s shoulder. “You found your own way out of that hole, Dean. Me? I stayed in it. And I took it out on you and Sammy.”

Dean swallowed. “You were doin’ the best you could.”

“That’s a pitiful excuse, and you know it. We both hid behind it for twenty-two years, Dean. Trying to protect Sam. But that’s all over now, and you can be honest with me. We both know I was a failure as a father.”

“Dad, don’t—”

Sam’s return bottled Dean’s intended reply. Sam held out the knife to John, who held up a hand.

“Give the knife to Dean. Sam, I want you to take point.”

“Uh,” Sam glanced at Dean. “Why me?”

“Because we have to go underground. Sewers.” John pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper from his pocket and held it up. “This is a map of the systems.”

“Right. Maps.” Sam said almost condescendingly. He passed the knife off to Dean and took the paper from John, crouching on one knee and smoothing it out against the dock. Dean leaned over him and John knelt on his other side.

Sam’s eyes moved across the map, fast, flicking and memorizing. Dean had to hand it to the kid, he was a wiz with this academic stuff.

“If we’re here,” Sam pointed to a rough sketch of the street. “Then the sewers all connect about two miles east.” He tapped his finger over the location and glanced at John. “You’re sure the murders all happened around here?”

“Every house was located along the sewer lines.” John tapped the spots on the map. “So we’re looking at a possible infiltration point. Here.” He brushed Sam’s hand aside to point to the main hub of the tunnels.

“So the thing goes into their houses, seduces the people and gets out through the sewers?” Dean said. John nodded. “Awesome. Let’s hunt.”

 

 

The sewers were dark and filthy.

Luckily, Sam had brought flashlights.

They each carried one: Sam going first, John in the middle, Dean covering the back. They dropped down onto a ledge running alongside the main flow of the sewer and Sam took the lead, because as good as Dean’s memory was—actually, it was photographic—his sense of direction underground was about as basic as forward and back. Sam knew those twists and turns by heart.

So Dean hung back, keeping an eye on both John and Sam. The knife in his hand didn’t feel like all that great of protection, but he was dealing. It just meant having to watch his own back, too. Which he was getting used to.

Still sucked, though.

They reached a fork in the sewer and without hesitation Sam backed up to the wall, took a running start and jumped across to the far side of the small sluiceway of water. John stared down at the murky sludge for a second, took a breath like he was bucking up for something serious, and jumped after Sam. Dean joined them, and they cut a hard left, heading deeper into the darkness.

“Man, this place smells like ass.” Dean muttered, eyes narrowing.

“Gee, I wonder why.” Sam shot back sarcastically.

“Sam.” John said quietly—too quiet. Dean snapped to alert.

“Dad, you okay?”

“Fine, Dean. Just…concentrating.” John said, but his voice sounded weird. Dean felt that lurch right in the pit of his stomach that he always got when something was about to go wrong—when his life was about to nosedive.

“Not about to pass out on us, are ya?” He asked cautiously.

“Dean, leave it alone.”

“Dad, if you’re—!”

“I said it’s fine, Dean!” John barked, the words crackling back like lightning through the walls. Dean stopped, staring at what little of his father’s hunched back he could see in the cold yellow glare of the flashlight. He looked like he was—

“Dad, are you shaking?”

“What’s going on?” Sam, who had gotten a few paces ahead, stopped and shined his light back on them. Dean saw John’s haggard face, deep shadows behind his jaw. He looked like a deer stuck in the headlights.

“Wonderin’ the same thing myself.” Dean replied. “Dad?”

“Listen.” John said. “It’s not—” He broke off suddenly, expression shifting from anxiety to panic. “Dean, behind you!”

Dean was already reacting, turning, slashing, but something struck his shoulder and flung him down sideways. A heavy weight dropped onto his legs, pinning him down, and hot breath got tangled in his ear halfway to his brain. “ _Always keep your_ —”

“Dad,” Dean gritted out.

“Dad, shoot it!” Sam hollered, but he was already barging forward as he said it. He popped two shots that missed as the weight vanished from Dean’s legs. He heard footsteps slapping away, and then silence rolled over them like fog.

“You all right?” Sam asked, sights sweeping through the darkness beyond Dean. He nodded, got onto his knees and grabbed the flashlight.

“Peachy.” He glared at John. “The hell was that?”

“I hesitated, Dean.”

“That thing coulda killed me!”

“That’s why there are three of us. In case something like this happens.” John shook his head. “We’re too late. It knows we’re here, it knows we’re on to it. We have to abort, now.”

“We’re halfway there!” Sam protested.

“Sam, it knows we’re here. Going any further, we run the risk of an ambush.”

“Then we’re riskin’ it.” Dean pushed past Sam. “You point me in the right direction, I’m gonna keep walking.”

“Dean’s right.” Sam said. “We see this through.”

Half in light, half in shadow, John heaved a heavy breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “Watch your back, Dean.”

“Workin’ on it.”

They started walking again, with renewed urgency. Dean kept trying to shake the sticky heat of his ear from where that thing had gagged all over him. He felt like he needed a shower or two. Or ten. He hated these fugly things.

Sam took a sudden right, another left, and then they were stepping out into the hub, pitch-black except where their flashlight beams cut across the water. A guttural churning under their feet made Dean think the water was draining somewhere, at the same rate it was flowing in through eight or nine different waterways around the room.

“Nothing.” Sam said flatly, making a detailed sweep of the whole place. “There’s nothing down here, dad.”

“Not in this room, anyway.” Dean turned his light back on the tunnel they’d come out of. “That _thing’s_ definitely down here.”

“We need to get aboveground. Regroup, work out a strategy. If it knows we’re hunting it, this thing will be hard to draw out.” John said, heading back the way they’d come. Sam hurried to take the lead again, and Dean hung back a little, wary—and not just of the monster.

It felt like hours before they made it topside again, sliding the sewer grate back into place. Dean shook himself off but couldn’t get rid of that contaminated feeling he always got in the sewers.

“You get a look at that thing when it jumped me?” He demanded of Sam.

“Uh, it was small.” Sam answered. “Stocky. Definitely corporeal. It looked like it had a, uh, a really long tongue.”

“Tell me it wasn’t jammin’ that thing in my ear.”

“You couldn’t tell?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

“No. Not really.”

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “Ignorance is bliss.” He walked back toward the pier and Dean stared after him.

“Gross!”

They reached the Impala, Sam ahead, John trailing behind, and with every step he took Dean felt the anger flushing up, again and again, until he felt like a boiled lobster about to pop off its skin.

He turned on his father when they reached the car.

“What the _hell_ was that back there, huh?”

“Dean—” John began.

“No, don’t ‘ _Dean_ ’ me, dad. That wasn’t just you hesitating, that was…” He broke off, looked away, dragged in a few breaths. “That _thing_ had me pinned down, and you locked up!”

“Dean, I panicked. It happens. To _everyone_.”

“No, it doesn’t. Not to everyone.”

“Dean.” Sam said, leaning against the Impala. “Not here, all right?”

This was backwards, Dean thought. _He_ was supposed to be the mediator between John and Sam, sticking his neck out into the middle of their toe-to-toe screaming matches. Trying to keep peace from taking that one tiny step into full-out Winchester Warfare. Not like this—Sam wasn’t supposed to be the calm one.

They’d grown up.

“Forget it.” Dean fished out the keys. “Guess we’re hittin’ the books tonight, Sam. Like that’s gonna do any good.”

“I’ll meet up with you boys back at the motel.” John said.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked.

“For a walk,” John said. “To clear my head.”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean climbed into the Impala and cranked the engine, not looking at John. Reluctantly, Sam got in with him. Dean peeled out without looking back, but Sam’s eyes were pinned to the rearview mirror until they turned the corner and left the pier behind them.

Sam turned in his seat, eyes furious. “What’s wrong with you, Dean?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with _him_?” Dean white-knuckled the steering wheel, glaring at the road that the tires chewed over. “You ever seen dad freeze up on us like that, Sam?”

“He’s just getting back in the saddle, Dean!”

“Bull, Sam! Dad jumped on that horse swingin’ after mom died. So why’s he all cuddly Carebear this time, huh?”

“Maybe it was Hell.” Sam looked out the window. “Maybe Hell changed him.”

Dean looked at his brother sideways. “Yeah. ’Cause you and me, Hell made us whiny emo bitches, too.” He took one hand off the steering wheel and half turned toward Sam. “Wanna hug?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’, Sam! Dad doesn’t get the jitters. You remember what he told us when we were hunting Yellow-Eyes? Said that son of a bitch was more important than anything. That included you and me.”

“Why are you so against him, Dean?”

“I wanna know why you’re not slinging punches at the guy! Seriously, Sam? He’s been tripping up all day.”

“Dean, y’know…did you ever think about the fact that dad _died_? The last thing he ever did was tell you that you might have to _kill_ me. And he just…he sat me at the kid’s table so you guys could have that talk. Now he’s back. And honestly? I’m not looking the gift horse in the mouth, here.”

“So, what? This is about you trying to make yourself _feel_ good about dad dying before you got a chance to apologize?”

Sam looked at him, saying nothing for a minute. Then he slouched back in his seat. “So what are we supposed to do, Dean? Reject him? Shut him out?”

“Nah. We do it the old-fashioned way.” Dean said as they pulled into the parking lot of the Wayside Inn. He got out, popped the trunk and propped it open with a sawed-off shotgun. Then he started pulling out canisters, jars, and weapons. Lining them all up nice and neat in a row, ’cause it helped him think.

Sam watched, silent. Then he sighed.

“What are you doing?”

“Something’s wrong with dad, and I got some ideas.” Dean said. “So we’re givin’ the man a cocktail.” Dean braced his hands on the edge of the trunk and cut Sam a sideways glare. “Got a problem?”

Sam gave him that bitchfaced, What-Do- _You_ -Think? look.

“Yeah, well, stuff it.” Dean uncorked their last flask of holy water. “’Cause we don’t have a choice at this point, Sam. We gotta get to the bottom of this—or so help me, I will load his ass fulla rock salt.”

“That a promise?”

“Yeah.” Dean gathered the supplies and slammed the trunk shut, squaring up to Sam. “It is.”

Sam scoffed. “What’s gotten in to you, Dean? You know what’s out there. What we’re hunting. You can’t say stuff like that.”

“Maybe I don’t care, Sam. Maybe I don’t need some monster to make me keep my promises, y’know? I do that myself.”

“Not this one, Dean. You could hurt dad. Push him away.”

“That what you’re afraid of?”

“Who said I was _afraid_ of anything?”

“Ha!” Dean barked a cold laugh. “I can see it in your eyes, Sammy. You’re scared the man’s gonna bail again if you piss him off. Same way he bailed in the hospital. Only this time it’ll probably be less perma—”

Sam lashed out, hitting Dean hard in the chest, shoving him back against the Impala. They stared at one another, Sam with his jaw working hard, fast and silent, Dean still as stone, carved out of the same thing as the ground beneath his feet: just plain hard and cold. Not moving.

Sam let out a long breath, nostrils flaring. “Don’t talk about dad like that.”

He barged past Dean, heading for the hotel.

“Times change, huh?” Dean called after him. Sam didn’t look back.

Dean pulled out a fresh duffle bag, dropped his silver-plated gun inside, grabbed the rest of the supplies, and followed Sam inside, shaking away the annoying buzzing that had just started up in his right ear.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

_December 24 th, 2011_

_Wayside Inn, Vermilion, Ohio_

 

The wait for John’s return felt like the longest of Sam’s life.

            He started with pacing; because honestly, crammed into a motel room with Dean while his brother was lining up weapons, wards and an arsenal of iron and bronze, there wasn’t much Sam could do. That, and the anger was still there, burning in the tips of his fingers. The kind of anger that had led him in the past to flinging demons against the wall with his mind.

            He couldn’t fling Dean; so he lashed out in silence, feeling the sparks spitting from his eyes, pacing relentlessly, raking a hand down his face, both hands back through his hair. Watching and moving around him as Dean drew up a Devil’s Trap on the ceiling, even though he’d already doused John with holy water. Watching and not saying anything as Dean laid a ring of salt around the table, leaving a thin trail through one section so that John could step into it but, if Dean moved fast enough, wouldn’t be able to get out. More salt. Matches. Their bronze knife. Iron crowbars.

            Dean laid it all out, rearranged it, moved it, spread it out. He cleaned his gun four times and checked the sawed-off at least three. Every second made him more restless; every second put Sam into a deeper state of unrest, until he’d sunk so low that he just sat on the bed, chin resting on clasped hands, staring through Dean.

            Sam felt tired. Grated thin like he’d been strapped to the bumper of the Impala, and dragged cross-country. He was tired of seeing Lucifer in every reflection, sick of catching an hour or two of sleep before the nightmares caught up with him. Tunnels, dark places, warehouses. Things that felt like memories from topside and down under—so far under Sam would never be able to claw his way back out again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten; or had a real dream; or not felt like he was suffocating.

            “Stop glarin’ at me, Sam.” Dean said suddenly.

            Sam sat back. “I wasn’t glaring at you.”

            “Ah, you liar. That was the stink-eye of the century.” Dean kicked one boot up on the edge of the table. “You know I gotta do this, Sam.”

            It was an outlet for Sam’s rage. “No, Dean, you don’t. For once in your life, you could just let something like this _go_.”

            “Yeah, okay, fine. Say I did. What happens when dad wigs out on us in the middle of the night and tries to kill us?”

            “That’s not gonna happen.”

            “You think you can guarantee that?” Dean demanded. “Huh? You wanna _swear_ that to me, Sam? ’Cause one thing I’ve learned, my whole life, it’s that you don’t jump in pants-down if you know something nasty out there’s gonna bite you in the ass. And right now, this whole damn case looks like a chomper.”

            “Dean, dad’s not a _part_ of this case! He’s helping us out! You know that.”

            “Yeah, I keep hearing you say that. So you and dad got all warm and fuzzy last night. Good for you. But you can stow the crap, Sam. Even if you’re right, coupla days from now, you two’ll be tearin’ into each other like dogs on a scrap’a meat. And I’ll get stuck in the middle again. Just like the good old times.”

            “What—Dean, are you mad at us?” Sam demanded.

            Dean gave him a classic Are-You-Crazy? Look. “Are you kidding me? _No_!”

            “Jealous?”

            “Of your face? You wish.”

            “Then _what_ , Dean? I’m trying to figure out why you’re so _against_ the idea of dad being back.”

            “’Cause life doesn’t work like that, Sam!” Dean pushed himself to his feet, one hand pressed down hard and flat on the table. His face was tinged red with anger. “Man, you of all people should know that! When you died in Cold Oak, I had to _buy_ you back. With my own _life_! Cass pulls me outta Hell? So I can be Michael’s prom dress! Crowley fishes you outta the pit so you can be his Soulless Soldier. It’s not about us, it’s about them and their crazy, spaced-out wars.”

“Dean—”

“No, hear me out, Sam!” Dean’s voice pitched low, hoarse. “Demons, angels, they don’t give us anything we want. They pretend like they’re gonna and then they take it and twist it so it doesn’t look like a blessing, it looks like we got cursed. This is a _curse_ , Sammy. And dad’s a part of it. So I don’t wanna hear how this is some miracle, or how it’s providence or a gift or whatever the hell you wanna call it. It’s bad mojo, all right? And the sooner we figure out what brought him back, the sooner we can fix it.”

            “Fix it.” Sam echoed flatly. “You mean send him back.”

            “If that’s what it takes.”

            “Listen to yourself, Dean. You’re shutting him out. Isn’t there anything you wanna say to the man before you try sending him back to Heaven?”

            Dean squinted one eye shut and looked up at the ceiling, lips pursed in thought. “Yeah, how about, ‘So long and thanks for all the fish.’?”

            Sam rolled his eyes. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

            “It’s been said.”

            A key slid into the door lock. Dean shot Sam a Screw-This-Up-And-You-Are-Dead look. Sam leaned one shoulder against the divider beside the bed, arms crossed, as John walked in. He shut the door, stopped, gaze flicking to the weapons lined up on the small table in the corner, Dean standing, arms crossed, inside a ring of salt. He looked up very slowly at the Devil’s Trap on the ceiling, and then down again, at the line of Holy Oil that divided the room in half: Sam and Dean on one side, John on the other.

            “It looks like you boys have been busy.” John acknowledged.

            “We need to talk. _Dad_.” Dean said belligerently. “If that’s who you really are.”

            “You sound like you’re twelve.” Sam muttered. Dean’s arm twitched.

            “I was starting to think you would just take my word for it, Dean.” John walked over to join them, stepping over the line of Holy Oil and out from under the Devil’s Trap. Dean lifted his chin a fraction, shifted his weight. Not a demon, for sure.

            “Guess you know the drill.” Dean said, stepping aside. John sat at the table, shed his jacket, took a deep breath and rolled up both sleeves.

            “You want me to work my way down the line, son?”

            Dean leaned over the back of John’s chair. “For starters.”

            This whole thing felt wrong, like it was curdling in Sam’s stomach. He wanted to tell Dean to stop; hadn’t their father bled enough for them? Bled and died. Sam was running out of open oozing holes in his life to fill with the blood from the people he’d cared about, and lost. He didn’t want to sit through this.

            “Dean—”

            “ _Sam_.” Dean cut him off, loud and sharp, looking at him over one shoulder. “You wanna leave?” When Sam didn’t say anything, just glared, Dean straightened up. “Take a walk, Sam.”

            “No.” John said. “He stays. You both stay.” He picked up the bronze knife, first in the row. There was a wellspring of sadness in his eyes so deep, Sam felt like he could see himself reflected in it. “Your brother’s doing the right thing, and you need to see it, Sammy. You need to toughen up.”

            He gripped his hand into a fist, making the cords of muscle on his forearm stand out underneath his skin. He put the tip of the bronze knife against his skin—pulled in a deep breath—dragged the blade across while he let his breath out.

            In the pulsing silence that followed, his blood ran down his wrist. The sound of it pattering on the floor broke the spell. Dean took the knife, shoved it aside and handed John the iron crowbar.

            And they kept going; iron, salt, holy water, Latin words, chants. Sam felt like the clock on the wall was ticking backwards, spinning him into the past where he was just a kid watching his brother and dad work cases together. It was like the whole world narrowed down and it was just about the two of them; even right now, when Dean’s trust didn’t go past what his gut was telling him, that something was wrong here. It was still their world. The kind of same-centered, focused exclusion that had made Sam run away when he was fourteen, because he couldn’t take being the third wheel in their hunting party anymore.

            He clenched his fingers and then shook them out, shook the feeling off.

            They got to the end of the row, Dean still hovering over John like a vulture. John looked up at him with tired eyes. “You did a good job here, Dean. You covered all the bases.” He stood up. “Are we done?”

            Dean nodded slightly. “Yeah. We’re done.”

            John picked up his jacket and tugged it on. “Good. I’ve got some ideas about where are friend from the sewers might be.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “I think we should—”

            He broke off with a cry of pain, ripping his hand out of his pocket. Before Sam could take more than one step toward him, Dean beat him there; he punched John full-on in the face, knocking him back against the wall. His head hit and he crumbled unconscious to the floor.

            “Dean, what the _hell_ was that?” Sam demanded, frozen, stunned.

            Dean crouched and slid something out of John’s pocket; Sam recognized one of the lumps of silver they’d never gotten around to melting into bullets. Sam’s gaze shifted unwillingly to John’s smoldering hand; there was a puckered, angry burn the same size and shape as the silver lump, smoking slightly on the webbing of skin between his thumb and forefinger.

            “You wanna tell me this guy’s normal?” Dean demanded quietly. He straightened and tossed the silver onto the table, grabbing John’s arm and pulling him up. “Gimmie a hand, here.”

            “What are you doing?” Sam asked.

            “Tyin’ him up until he can give us some real answers.” Dean slung John’s arm across his shoulders and looked at Sam. “You gonna help me, or what?”

            Sam wavered, torn; then he grabbed the chair and turned it toward Dean, who dropped John unceremoniously into it. He grabbed a length of rope out of the duffle bag and bound John to the chair, then tied his wrists behind it and anchored his feet to the legs. Sam started pacing again, running a hand down his face, eyes coming back to John again and again. A burning fissure was starting to open up in Sam’s belly.

            “What is he?”

            “One way to find out.” Dean uncapped a flask of holy water and splashed it in John’s face. “Hey! Wake up, you two-faced dickwad!”

            “Dean.”

            Dean cut Sam a glare, then leaned over, one hand on John’s shoulder, head tucked in low. “You better look at me. _Look at me_!”

            John’s head rolled limply up; his eyes opened slowly and he stared at Dean, face expressionless.

            “Yeah, that’s better.” Dean straightened, stepping back. “You wanna tell us who you really are?”

            “I’m your father, Dean.”

            “Bullcrap! My dad wasn’t allergic to _silver_!”

            John dropped his chin to his chest, then glanced up again. “Dean. I can explain.”

            “Then start talkin’.”

            Sam held his silence, the fissure wriggling its way across his insides.

            John sighed, heavily. “Five years ago, I was in Bixby, Oklahoma. There was a string of murders in the neighborhood where I lived. The kind that got people asking questions. And one day they brought in a cop that I’d never seen before. An older guy. He started tracking me, following my every move. I couldn’t shake him, no matter how hard I tried.”

            “Why was he after you?” Sam asked quietly.

            John looked at him. “He thought I was the murderer.”

            “And?” Sam prompted.

            “And I _wasn’t_.” John said firmly. “I’d never killed anyone before in my life. Not up to that point, anyway.”

            “So what happened?” Sam felt like he didn’t want to hear the end of this, like hearing it might kill him; but he didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t going to sucker out like Dean had wanted him to. He was sticking this through.

            “He came after me.” John said. “And I had to fight him off. I tore off part of his shirt and I just…I panicked. I started changing. And by the time I got away from him, I was already…I was just like this.”

            “Son of a bitch.” Sam said quietly, the fissure splitting into a hollow, icy abyss in his chest.

            “Shapeshifter.” Dean’s tone was cold.

            “I knew that’s what I was.” John said, looking at Dean’s stony face, helpless. “But after a few months of hiding, plagued by the hunter’s memories…it was too much. I started to forget who I was.”

            “And dad let you go?” Sam demanded.

            “I didn’t leave a trail, but I was watching him. And one day he got a phone call and he left in a hurry. Never showed up again.” John paused. “Personally, I think it had something to do with the yellow-eyed demon he was chasing.”

            Dean stiffened. “That musta been while I was in New Orleans.”

            “You were.” John said. “I remember that.”

            “So you have all of our dad’s memories?” Sam asked.

            “Up to the second that we started fighting. It’s been a very long five years.” John almost smiled. “A lot to process through.”

            “So lemee get this straight.” Dean said, and Sam recognized the look on his face: pissed as hell. Ready to explode. “You fight our dad, steal his memories, and start some vigilante crap, wearing his meat suit?”

            “Of course not.” John said. “For the longest time, I was too terrified to show my face. I stayed underground—deep under. Until about three months ago.”

            “What happened?” Sam felt like he was walking a line between anger and despair, pushing both sides down until he could process through it all.

            “Another Shapeshifter found me. Said he had some sort of proposition, telling me he was starting an army. I turned him down and he said I’d be hunted, weeded out without mercy when our race became dominate. It started me thinking—I had all of this knowledge of how to hunt, all these cases in my mind. So why not use it for good, if a war was coming? I was still terrified, half out of my mind. But I knew I could do it.”

            “So you’re a Shifter _hunter_.” Sam said incredulously.

            “I’m not saying it’s not hypocritical. Or that it’s enough to atone for what I am. But if I walk the line, maybe I can buy myself a quiet corner of Purgatory.”

            “If you’re some badass hunter,” Dean butted in. “Then how come you froze up in the sewers, huh?”

            “Like I said, Dean,” John sounded world-weary. “This job still scares the living daylights out of me. Vampires, werewolves—those, I can handle. It’s all in my head.” He met Dean’s furious gaze. “But these new monsters that are starting to crawl out of the pit—I don’t know how to fight them. No one does. It’s hell.”

            “Yeah, believe me, buddy, this isn’t Hell. Not even close.” Dean perched on the edge of the table, picked up one of the knives and tossed it to himself. “So who are you under that face, huh?” He angled the knife toward John and John looked away.

            “I don’t remember.”

            “Sure.”

            “Dean. I _don’t_.” John insisted. “I hardly remember my life before Bixby. I’ve been John Winchester for so long, I guess I forgot who—”

            “You’re not him!” Dean snarled. “You hear me, you silver-eyed freak? You’re not our dad. You’re just a lying sack of crap wearing his face.” He shifted the knife in his hand, set it back on the table and rose slowly to his feet. “And it’s about time we did our job.”

            The chasm in Sam’s chest yawned wider. “Dean, hold on a second. We need to think this one out.”

            “Not happenin’, Sam.” Dean pulled out his gun from the waistband of his jeans. “Shifter’s a shifter and these guys have been givin’ us hell for years. I’m not takin’ that chance again.” He aimed for John’s heart. “Best way to kill a Shapeshifter’s a silver bullet in the heart. Right, _dad_?”

            Sam dodged to his feet, desperate. “Dean, he’s not just some Shapeshifter going around _killing_ people! He’s saving lives, just like we are!”

            “He’s a _freak_ , Sam, just like the rest of ’em.” Dean cut him a look sideways, then corrected his stance. “With God-knows what kinda monsters on the loose? I can’t take a chance.”

            Sam crossed the room in two strides and put himself between John and Dean, arms spread wide. Challenging his brother. _Daring_ him. “I’m a freak, too, Dean. Remember? You think I should be shot?”

            Dean glared fire at him. “You get in my way, and I’ll put you down, Sammy, I swear to God.”

            Total, enveloping silence capped the room. Sam dropped his arms, dumbstruck, horrified. John sucked in a sharp breath.

            “Dean…”

            “You have any idea,” Sam interrupted softly. “What you just said to me?”

            Dean’s jaw shifted, lips quirking like he wanted to spit out some witty comeback. Then he shoved the gun back into his waistband and walked out the door, slamming it shut so hard the mirror over the beds rattled.

            Sam stood there for—God, it felt like minutes. Feeling the words stabbing into him, flooding ice into his veins. That Dean had said that—knowing damn well what it meant. That he’d _said it anyway_.

            Sam pressed his fingertips against his temples, bowed his head and closed his eyes. Forced himself past the mental block of what Dean had just done, or threatened to do. And realized that he’d been walking a line for weeks now, fighting constantly against the side of him that had been manifest topside for over a year: the part that just didn’t care, about _anything_ , or _anyone_ , as long as the job got done. The part that was pure reaction, pure instinct, and no feeling.

            Feeling was everything, because it was his soul. It was who Sam was.

            And right now he felt like the ground was caving in under his feet.

            He turned back toward the table, grabbed the bronze knife and slit the ropes around John’s wrists and arms, tearing them off, throwing them on the floor.

            “Come on. Dean’ll be back soon.”

            “He trusts you to leave me tied up.” John mentioned as he stripped off the rest of the ropes and got to his feet, rubbing his chafed wrists.

            “Yeah. Well, Dean should know better.” Sam drew his own gun. “If you try anything—”

            “Trust me, Sammy, you’re the last person on this earth that I would want to kill.”

            Sam cocked his head, but didn’t ask. “Come on, we need to move.”

            They avoided the main hallways of the hotel, taking a dingy Employees-Only staircase that led to a fenced-off dumpster lot in the back. Sam threw the duffle bag over the top of the fence, then hopped over it himself and crouched, waiting, looking for any sign of Dean nearby. He didn’t see anyone, and when John dropped soundlessly beside him Sam took off across the parking lot, stooped over to hide behind the cars, making his way toward the Impala with the Shifter in tow.

            They reached the car and Sam tested the handle; unlocked. Dean never locked it. He slid into the front seat and yanked down the wiring behind the steering column. John climbed in shotgun and peered down at him.

            “You remember how to do that?”

            “Bobby taught me how to hotwire a car when I was six.” Sam reminded him.

            “I didn’t figure you for the hotwiring type. Not after Stanford.”

            “Times change.” Sam flicked a tense smile as the engine purred to life, dragging himself back up into the driver’s seat.

            John shook his head. “Dean’ll be out for blood, Sam. He loves this car.”

            “He already wants me dead. One more strike’s not gonna save my neck.” Sam pulled out and gunned it, tires squealing on asphalt, lurching out into the street.

            They drove for close to half an hour; Sam had no idea where he was going. The Shifter—John—it was silent. And for Sam that was all right, because the chaos in his brain was enough noise to deal with. He didn’t want to make excuses; didn’t want to explain himself. Didn’t want to admit that this was one step toward trying to make up for everything he’d done while soulless, and it wouldn’t even scratch the surface. But he was riding the wire, going with gut instinct. Because gut instinct was what he’d been missing while his soul was in the cage. Gut instinct told him when something was wrong.

            Unless his conscience had polarized.

            He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

            John slid a glance toward him, then stared out the windshield. It was dark, the streetlights mapping a path down a deserted street into an industrial park, lakeside. “Sam, I know that wasn’t easy for you. Going up against your brother like that.”

            Sam half-smiled, an empty expression. “Not as hard as it used to be.”

            “What do you mean?”

            Sam glanced out the driver’s side window. “You don’t know everything we went through. The last thing my dad remembered, yeah, Dean and I weren’t talking. But the past five years,” He broke off, searching for words. “They haven’t exactly been easy.”

            “Well, I can tell you one thing, Sam.” John said. “You’re not the same pain-in-the-ass kid I kicked out for Stanford. You grew up, just like your brother. Hell, maybe you grew up more.” An awkward silence filtered in. “I know what you and Dean went through. How you both went to Hell.”

            Sam’s knuckles felt like they would jut out of his skin, and he tried to be flippant. “Yeah? So?”

            “So I know how a father would feel about his sons going to Hell. And believe me,” John’s voice went very quiet, almost faded out. “There’s nothing that compares to that. _Nothing_.”

            Sam slammed on the brakes in the shadow of a factory, turning in the seat to look at John. “You remember _everything_ about me and Dean?”

            “I remember how it felt to hold you the day you were born.”

            Sam nodded, not really sure why he’d asked, or why it mattered; maybe he just wanted to know he’d done the right thing. He started the car rolling again, crawling around corners now instead of slinging through the streets, and he realized he’d made a circle back to the docks near Erie, a couple of miles from the motel. They stopped beside an enormous paper factory, and Sam got out first. John was right behind him.

            “What are we doing here, Sam?” John asked.

            “Hiding you.” Sam shoved his hands into his pockets; in the daytime, the wind blowing off the lake had been chilly. At night it was so frigid it stung his exposed skin. “Dean won’t get far without the car, but that won’t stop him from looking. Once he realizes we’re gone,” He shook his head. “It’s gonna get really bad, really fast.”

            “Then you should stay away. Stay as far from your brother as you can, until we sort this out.” John said.

            “Sort what out?” Hands still in his pockets, Sam gave a helpless shrug. “We don’t know what this thing is, or where to find it. We’ve got nothing. Except we know Dean’s probably under its spell. So…I have to find him. I can’t keep running away from him until we find the answer.”

            “Sam. He _will_ try to kill you. He won’t be able to stop himself.”

            “Just like Essex.” Sam smiled sadly. “I made him a promise. I’ve got his back. Even when he turns his back on me.”

            “That’s not bravery, Sam. That’s stupidity. You need to stay _here_.”

            “Sorry. You’re not my dad.” Sam climbed back into the Impala. “Stay in that factory, stay hidden, and keep your phone on. I’ll get in touch when I talk Dean into letting you live.”

            “Sam.” John said before he could pull away. “You’re a hunter, same as your brother. Why can’t you finish the job?”

            “You mean, why can’t I kill you?” Sam asked. John lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. Sam sighed. “’Cause not everybody has a choice about what kinda blood they’ve got in their veins. But I’m not giving up on someone who turns a curse into something good.”

            John nodded slowly, stepping back. “I’ll be here when you need me.”

            Sam flexed his fingers on the steering wheel.

            And pulled out onto the street.

    

 


	8. Chapter 8

_December 24 th, 2011_

_Sherod_ _Park, Vermilion, Ohio_

 

Just when you thought life sucked enough, something came along and kicked the crap outta you.

            Dean went for a walk—a pretty long walk. So pissed he couldn’t see straight, couldn’t _think_ straight. Hell. He couldn’t tell which way he was walking. He just kept going, fingers curling and loosening spastically around the grip of his gun. Wishing he’d’ve fired the thing and just gotten all of this over with.

            But he hadn’t. He’d let that Shapeshifter get inside his head, trick him. He’d let that freak back him off of his instincts, and now he was—

            _Freak_.

            Sam.

            Dean was stubborn. God knew it, the angels knew it, demons knew it. Not many people could survive thirty years on the rack downstairs, or go toe-to-toe with Michael and walk away still breathing free air. But he’d done it, all of it. Solid Winchester titanium, inside and outside. Walls up everywhere, like his dad had taught him by example. Dean was a living, breathing example of a human attaché case—good luck busting these locks.

            Except he’d screwed everything up, and right now, walking down a grassy, crunchy slope onto an empty golf course, Dean felt it all boiling up under his skin until it exploded out. All of it—and not just this case. But everything. Palo Alto—Jordie, Jesse, Sadie, Thor. Essex—Marik and Isabelle. Kicking it back, farther than that—dragons, Purgatory, Skinwalkers, faeries, vampires, Ben, and Lisa, and Sam, Sam, freaking _Sam…_

Dean tumbled onto his knees on the dehydrated turf, pressing his firearm into the mud, staring down at the ridges of his fists. Then he sat back and turned his head up, straining until the cords of muscle on his neck bulged, feeling like he was going to explode out of his skin. Like a Shapeshifter.

            “What the _hell_ am I supposed to do?” He screamed at the open black blanket of the sky. “ _Huh_? You tell me how I’m supposed to kill that _thing_ when it’s wearing my dad’s _face_!”

            Of course, the answer to that was simple. Don’t look at its face. Just double-tap, straight to the heart. Silver bullet. It’d be dead before it hit the floor. And then they could pack up, move out, try and patch things up or bury it so deep it’d never come up again. Do things the Winchester way and hope to hell that it’d be enough, this time.

            Dean dug his fingers out of the grass, dragged in a breath and tucked his chin to his chest, feeling the frigid wind tugging through his hair. Couldn’t really remember the last time he’d been totally warm; felt safe; felt _sane_. The last few weeks he’d been chasing himself in circles. Around Sam. Around Bobby. Castiel. The cases. They hadn’t stopped running since Palo Alto. Dean was running out of excuses, reasons to push himself to keep up the race.

            He wondered what would happen if he just kept walking across this empty golf course, slept it off under a tree, left Sam with the Shapeshifter and the Impala and just kept walking. Dean Winchester wasn’t a quitter—but he was tired.

            He shoved back up onto his feet; knowing that leaving Sam alone with the Shapeshifter put his brother in danger. It was a pretty long walk back to the Wayside Inn, and once he got there he’d have a fight on his hands, no doubt about it. If Dean was titanium stubborn, Sam was diamond-solid. Kid could talk a clock into ticking backwards if you gave him enough time. And he’d do it, too, just to prove he could.

            He’d’ve made a hell of a lawyer, Dean thought wryly. Definitely the first person he would’ve called, in the unlikely event the cops managed to hold him for more than forty-eight hours. And that was when they actually caught up to him. Which wasn’t happening too often these days.

            God. His brain was running totally dry.

            Dean started walking, working through arguments in his head—ways to talk the Geek Lawyer over to his side. It never turned out good when they let something go that they should’ve hunted. It ended one of two ways: heartbreak, like with Madison; or death, like the dozen or more people who had died in the earthquake in Palo Alto, because Sam and Dean hadn’t killed Jesse.

            Then his logic kicked off and that nagging side started in. Reminded him that, yeah, Jesse had been the cause of a lot of death. But he was just a _kid_ , it wasn’t like it was his fault how he was born. Or what had made him. Same with Madison—she hadn’t asked Stalker Talbot to turn her. The dude just had. And Sam had put a bullet in her heart—and taken it in himself, like he was the one who got shot.

            Dean was drumming up a lot of nothing.

            He kept walking.

 

 

            “Sam?”

            The motel room was dark, for the most part, but with the moonlight slanting in through the vertical blinds Dean’s eyes picked up the twisted, frayed strips of rope scattered around the base of the chair the minute he opened the door. He walked over, fast, and knelt, picking up the length and giving it a good look. It was slit clean—definitely a knife. So either the Shapeshifter had cut itself free.

            Or.

            “Ah, Sam, _c’mon_!” Dean spat under his breath, lurching back onto his feet. “You cut him loose?” He gave the room a once-over but it was just force of habit; unless the two of them were hiding under the beds—which would be pretty immature even for Sam—then they were gone. Probably long gone.

            Okay. Sure. He’s taken a risk walking out that door. Pissed, confused, taking hits on both sides, he’d just made a judgment call. Figured Sam would do the right thing: _stay put_. Not bail with the Shifter in tow.

            Unless it had gone the other way.

            Dean headed back downstairs, pulling out his cell-phone. He speed-dialed Sam and the call went through just as he burst out onto the street.

            “Get your ass back to the motel, Sam.” He barked.

            “No, I don’t think so.” Sam said distractedly.

            “Sam!”

            “You think I don’t know what’ll happen, Dean? You’re not thinking straight about this guy.”

            “Thinking straight.” Dean echoed flatly. “You got a problem with the fact that I’m not jumping in bed with something we’re supposed to _hunt_? That thing’s gotta be put down, Sam. That’s what _dad_ taught us to do!”

            “Yeah, and maybe dad was _wrong_ sometimes, Dean! Look, we’ve had this fight...a hundred times. You want to kill monsters, and I get that. I respect it. Hell, most of the time I admire it. But this guy is _not a monster_.”

            “Sam. The man is _wearing our dad’s face_. And you wanna let him walk off with a slap on the wrist?” Dean snapped. “You weren’t this much of a pain in the ass—” He stopped himself before he could blurt out something in his fury that he’d regret. “Before.”

            Sam got it, anyway. “Yeah, maybe it was easier for me, too, Dean. But I was _soulless_.” He paused. “What does that say about you?”

            Dean turned a half circle in the parking lot, his back toward the road, an incredulous, dangerous smile yanking at his face. “Oh, you can cram it, Sam. Cram it so hard. You know you’re a hypocrite, right?”

            “Thanks to you and Death and Bobby…yeah. You made me a hypocrite, Dean. Congratulations.”

            “The hell are you tryin’ to start, here?” Dean demanded. “Just stay outta my way, Sam. Go play in your half of the sandbox, I’ll stick to mine. We’ll see who digs up the quarters first.”

            “We both know that’s not gonna work, Dean.”

            “Yeah? Why’s that?”

            “Because you want to find the Shifter, which means I have to protect him. So you’ll look everywhere. And I’ll try to stop you.”

            “So while we’re doin’ that, who’s keepin’ tabs on our walking Promise Ring?”

            “Good question.”

            “Ah, this is stupid, Sam. Let’s just ice the Shifter and get on with the hunt.” Dean stuck to his guns, because that was all he had left anymore. It was hard to swim when you didn’t know up from down; so you just went with it and hoped to God you didn’t drown before your head broke the water.

            “I’m not backing down, Dean.” Sam quiet quietly, steely calm. “Not on this.”

            “You think I’m not gonna find him.” It wasn’t really a question. “Sam, I know you, man. Better than anyone. Remember when you played hooky with Ruby? Took me less than a _day_ to find your sorry ass. I know how that freaky head of yours works. So you can’t play Frank Farmer for this guy.”

            “I can try.”

            “Yeah, well, you can get yourself killed, too.”

            “You think I’m scared of you, Dean?”

            “Maybe you should be.”

            The silence on the line felt like it was cramming itself into Dean’s brain, drilling a deep black hole into him. Silence from Sam wasn’t a good thing: it usually meant something was wrong, or he was planning on _doing_ something that might be wrong. Either way, it usually spelled _disaster_ in huge neon lights hanging over Dean’s head.

            “Sam?” He said tautly.

            “What d’you want me to say, Dean?” Sam sounded tired.

            “Well, for starts, you can tell me wh—” He cut off. The line had gone dead. “Sam? _Sam_!”

            Dead, ringing quiet. Dean swore, disconnected on his end and carded a listless hand back through his hair. Yeah, this sucked, no two ways around it. Sam was out there somewhere, probably patrolling the Shifter, wherever he was hiding him. It was getting late, and Dean was wired, ready for a fight.

            So he had two choices: slum it out in the motel, wait for Sam to decide to come back so they could argue, fight, maybe throw a couple punches and finally reach some kind of unlikely agreement. Or he could motor out and start hunting the monster, try and pick up the trail where they’d run into the thing earlier that day.

            Dean never was much for waiting around.

 

 

            It was darker than dark and cold as hell; not many streetlights on this stretch of road. Dean stalked on the roadside, shoulders hunched against the cold wind, murder written all over his face.

            He was gonna kill Sam.

            Little bitch had stolen the Impala.

            Like tonight didn’t suck enough already.

            Dean was almost back to the sewers, and trying to plan his next move. Going down into the sewers had been dangerous enough with Sam watching his back and the Shifter pinned between them; alone would probably land him ass-deep in trouble. Not that he had much of a choice. Kill this thing, solve a lot of problems, give himself time to think of a way to work things out with Sam. Or sneak around his brother’s guard and get to the Shifter.

            Business first, pleasure later.

            Dean slid the silver knife out of his belt; he still had a couple of blocks to go, if memory served him right, but better safe than sorry. No telling how far or how fast this monster could move, and the last thing Dean wanted was to get caught exposed, strolling down the lane like some pretentious asshat.

            He rounded a corner toward the dock and stopped dead in his tracks.

            The Impala was parked lengthwise across the road ahead of him; Sam lounged against the driver’s side door, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the head of the street. On _him_. Like he’d been waiting for Dean to show up.

            Dean stopped cold in his tracks.

            The wind whipped the water in the lake, churning it up.

            “I thought you wouldn’t show.” Sam said, voice thinned out by the distance.

            “The hell are you doing here?” Dean retorted.

            “I told you, if you came after him, I’d have to stop you.”

            Dean blinked. “You hid the guy by the _sewers_?” Sam shrugged, and Dean shook his head. “Oh, yeah, that was real smart. What, you think I wouldn’t come looking?” He ignored the fact that until now, Shifter had been number two on his priorities list. Sam showing up made it number one again.

            “I dunno, Dean. Maybe I wanted you to look.” Sam straightened up, shrugging again. “Maybe I’m tired of running away.”

            “From me.”

            “From this!” Sam tossed his hair back. “From all of this! First is was Azazel, then it was demon blood, then it was Lucifer, and knowing something was _wrong_ with me. I just couldn’t tell what. Now it’s the wall?” Sam shook his head. “I’m done, man. I’m just done. The running stops here. Now.”

            “Sam, don’t do this.” Dean said. “Not right now. You know what’s gonna happen if you keep standin’ there.”

            Sam sidestepped to the edge of the street. “I can’t let you kill that Shifter, Dean.”

            “So whatever happened to having each other’s backs? _Huh_?” Dean demanded, prowling back and forth across the street from curb to curb. “Whatever happened to killing monsters, fighting for the humans?”

            “We’ve let cases go before, Dean. When it was the right thing to do.”

            “That was before freakin’ _Purgatory_ opened and monster armies started killing people! You think whatever got out isn’t gonna turn this guy someday, Sam? You really that _stupid_ , you ignorant son of a bitch? He’s got all of dad’s memories—he knows about you, me, Bobby. He knows how we work, how we hunt, patterns, safe houses, _everything_.  He could wreck this whole operation we’ve got goin’ here, but no! You, you’re too much of a coward to face up to the fact that _dad is gone_! He died thinking _you_ hated him, and you just can’t live with that!”

            “Shut up.” Sam said, deadly calm.

            “When is it gonna get through your _thick_ head that that _thing_ isn’t our dad? It’s a _monster_ , Sam, and we gotta stop it before it turns on us!”

            “Like _every_ monster, right Dean?” Sam exploded, furious, his voice a bullhorn of rage. “Even the _human_ ones!”

            “You’re damn right, the human ones! The ones that walk around pretending they’re something else!”

            “I’ve got news for you, Dean!” Sam gestured to himself with a sideways cut of his hand. “ _I was one of those_!”

            “All right, that’s it, we’re done.” Dean snarled. “Get in the car, drive away. And don’t come back.”

            Sam shifted, lifting his chin. “I told you. No more running.”

            Dean’s hand itched backward toward the gun. “Dammit, Sam. We’re about to cross a line there’s no coming back from.”

            Sam spread his arms wide, challenging. “Then cross it.”

            Dean yanked out the firearm, and Sam bolted.

            Dean ran after him, splashing through puddles where the last snow had melted and collected in potholes. Sam swung down an alley to the right and Dean tore after him, feeling like something was pushing him along that wasn’t just him. Wasn’t possession, either. Just this gut feeling that he _had to do this_.

            At a fork in the alley, Sam went right again. Dean started after him, stopped and shoved a fist against his temple. They were running parallel to the street that dead-ended in the dock; Dean knew the layout. He could see it in his head.

            He went left.

            Feet pounding across the asphalt, breath searing its way out of his lungs, Dean reached the end of the alley, went right, and doubled back, stepping out onto the street where they’d taken the plunge down into the sewer. He angled the gun as Sam came scrambling around the corner.

            And stopped dead, facing him, five feet away.

            Sam held up his hands in surrender, but his eyes were doing the opposite. Defiant, spitting sparks. Daring Dean to make a move.

            “Where is it?” Dean demanded sharply. Sam blew out a hot gust of breath that fanned Dean’s face, and he clicked the hammer back on the firearm, feeling his control slipping away. A part of him _wanted_ this, had been wanting it since they’d gotten to Vermilion. But standing here with this gun between him and Sam, ripping the rift wider and wider between them, it was killing him. God, he hated this. This job. This life. It kept spinning him around when he just wanted to step off. Just step off and be _done_. “Dammit! Sam. Where is that son of a bitch?”

            Sam kept staring at him, and fiber by fiber the defiance left his eyes, giving out to resignation. But underneath that, he was strong. Strong and stubborn. He wasn’t hating. Wasn’t fighting. Wasn’t doing _anything_ except holding on to some stupid idea that Dean knew was going to end all of this. Right here. Right now.

            “Sam. This isn’t a game, man.” Dean didn’t have a choice; and the compulsion wasn’t like being possessed. It was natural, it felt—hell, had that thing even gotten in him? Or was this just _him_? Did he really want this?

            Sam shrugged, and that broke the illusion of the brothers being as frozen as the icy air around them.

            Dean moved, grabbed Sam’s jacket, spun him around and slammed him up against the building on the edge of the street. Shoving his arm under Sam’s chin, he pressed the muzzle of the gun against Sam’s temple. “Tell me where you hid him and we can get the hell out of here.”

            Sam gave him The Look, the one that told Dean that it was slipping out of their control. But Sam had learned something, Dean had watched him learn it when they were backed up against the Apocalypse: sometimes you had to plant your feet and wait for the water to hit, and if it knocked you down and drowned you, then you drowned. But at least you died because you were standing for something real.

            Sam was the wall. Dean was the water.

            “Don’t make me do this, Sammy.” He said, unsteady. “Don’t make me keep this promise.”

            “No one’s making you do anything, Dean.” Sam said expressionlessly.

            It hit Dean like a sucker-punch right to the ribs. He dropped his head, fighting that feeling inside of him that wanted to shut his brother up forever. One bullet. Straight through the temple. Clean shot, Sam wouldn’t suffer. And then Dean could get that Shifter, get the monster hiding under the sewer, and…

            And the monster wasn’t in the freaking sewer. It wasn’t anywhere in this city outside the little freezing bubble they were locked in. The monster was reflecting in Sam’s eyes, looking at Dean.

            Because Dean was the monster again.

            He looked up at Sam, saw how his face was wired, like he was holding something back—something he wanted to say or feel.

            “Wasn’t supposed to be like this, Sam.”

            “I know.”

            Dean took a deep breath, grabbed the side of Sam’s neck to keep him from pulling away. If he even would. Sam was done running, he’d made that obvious. So this was all that was left.

            _We hunt monsters._

 _Even the human ones_.

            His finger tightened—

            The report of gunfire made Dean flinch, duck his head slightly and yank his finger off the trigger. Sam’s shocked, confused expression probably matched his and together they looked down the street.

            John was standing a couple of yards away from them, sawed-off aimed skyward still, a shower of rock-salt clattering onto the pavement around him.

            “Dean.” He said, tone steely, drill-sergeant cold. “You let go of your brother. Let him go. _Now_.”

            No fear in that voice. No shakes, no uncertainty. Nothing but the kind of resolve that had told him how to fire his first gun. How to fix up his baby. How to take care of Sam. Dean was staring through a looking glass, straight at—

            “Dad?” His grip loosened, for one second, unsure.

            One second was all Sam needed.

            He grabbed the gun, twisting it to the side, and spun in toward Dean, jabbing an elbow into his ribs. Dean’s arm hyper-extended; his brain went into instinct. Let go of the firearm or dislocate his shoulder.

            He dropped it, back stepping, and then it was in Sam’s hands and aimed at him.

            Dean couldn’t take his eyes off John.

            He walked toward them, aim steady, grip sure. His gaze was fixed on Dean’s face.

            “Sam.” He said coolly. “Take his knives, too.”

            Sam barely nodded, stripping the silver and bronze daggers off of Dean’s belt.

            Dean’s muscles were frozen, locked up solid. Sam threw the knives onto the street and aimed for Dean again.

            Dean’s sense was returning; this was the Shifter. Sure, it was talking like his dad now, amping up the performance like an actor after he’d gotten a bad review. But it was still just a monster.

            “Now, listen to me. Both of you.” John’s gaze flicked to Sam. “I may not be John Winchester. I may not have been there for you the way your father was. Or wasn’t. But right now, I am all you have. I am your best line of defense. So I need you two to cowboy up, and come with me.”

            “Why?” Sam asked, keeping on that blank mask.

            “I had company.” John said. “After you dropped me off, Sam. A group of kids broke into the paper factory. On a dare, it sounded like. Now they’re completely entranced by that monster.”

            “The monster?” Sam echoed, head whipping aside.

            “You saw it?” Dean demanded.

            “I caught a glimpse.” John nodded. “But more importantly, I heard it. It’s getting stronger, no doubt about it. It actually talked to these kids—talked them into making…some sort of pact. Promised to make it worth their while if they agreed to help tie up some loose ends around town.”

            “What—tie up loose ends? That’s it?” Dean snapped.

            “That’s all I heard. They were moving away from me.” John said. “But that’s not the point. The point is that everything this monster has done up to this point, it’s all been to build up strength. Now it’s able to influence people directly, and there’s no telling where this could go from here.”

            “Or what it’s using those kids for.” Sam said softly. “If they agreed to help her tie up loose ends…”

            “They’ll have to keep their promise. No matter what it asks them to do.” John agreed. “Which is why we need to stop it.”

            “How?” Sam asked.

            “Same way as before.  Silver or bronze knife.”

            “How you gonna _find_ the thing?” Dean was keeping one eye pinned on Sam, with the gun trained on his chest. “Didn’t exactly have great luck with that last time.”

            “That was something else I found out. Sam, Dean, you were right. I was being too emotional, not paying attention to my surroundings. The sewer hub we found? It lies almost directly underneath the paper factory.”

            The way John said it—anticipating, figuring they’d make the connection—it clicked in Dean’s head. “Didn’t that guy Kevin work at a paper factory?”

            John nodded. “I checked the logbook while I was there. Schools have been doing end-of-semester field trips there for the past couple weeks. That explains more than half the deaths.”

            “Alen.” Sam said, comprehension breaking across his face. “So the monster chooses its victims when they come to the factory?”

            “Yeah. And uses the sewers to follow them to their houses. Once it whispers in your ear, it can compel you to—well. I think you boys know the rest.” John’s hard, disappointed eyes flashed onto Dean. He wanted to hunch away from that look. “The only way I can think of to stop this is to kill it.”

            “All right.” Dean said, shaking away that guilt that was biting his ass, getting himself focused again. “Tie me up.”

            “What?” Sam blinked at him.

            “Tie me up, Sam. I can’t trust myself not to,” Dean gestured to the firearm in Sam’s hands. “Y’know. Try and take your head off again.”

            “You seem fine right now.” Sam said matter-of-factly.

            “That’s ’cause the Creampuff is distracting me.”

            “I’ll choose to ignore that insult.” John said. “You’re right, Dean, we can’t trust you. But we need you on the mission. Besides, there’s a loophole here that both of you are missing.” He fixed his attention fully on Dean. “Your threat against Sam was that you’d kill him if he got in your way of hurting _me_. The only way to protect Sam is if you focus on killing this monster instead.”

            Dean’s throat felt like sandpaper. “That works out pretty well for you.”

            John’s mouth quirked into a smile. “It’s a perk.”

            “How do I know this thing didn’t work some monster mojo on you while you were eavesdropping on it, huh?”

            “One monster to another. It doesn’t affect me. I’d call that another perk.” John said. “So, how about it, Dean? Work with us, help us take that monster down.”

            Dean looked at Sam, strained, and then at John, impassive. He gritted his teeth. “Dammit!” He shook his head. “All right, fine, I’ll work with you. Ya slimy douchebag.”

            John smiled. “Good.” He lowered his gun, finally, and Sam did the same. “I’m not sure what the monster’s planning, but we need to have a strategy.”

            “Yeah, hard to plan one of those on a lotta guesses.” Dean said. Sam kicked the knives over to him. “We just walk in and start shooting?”

            “No. Draw the thing to us. Let it do most of the talking.” John said. “And whatever you do, don’t agree to anything.”

            “Tell me about it.” Dean muttered.

            “You both with me?” John verified, and both Sam and Dean nodded. “All right. Let’s smoke this son of a bitch out.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

_December 25 th, 2011_

_McAllen’s Paper Industry, Vermilion, Ohio_

Some places were built to be haunted.

            Or in this case, infested by a monster.

            Sam stood in the middle of the street outside the paper factory, John and Dean beside him, guns in hand, taking a sweep of the building; side door was open, lock jammed, half-broken. This was where the kids had gotten in. Now that Sam thought about it, a lot of their cases backed them up against stupid people doing stupid things, usually on a dare, that put them right in the crosshairs. Sam wondered a lot of times how people in general could be that reckless. Or just plain stupid.

            He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the factory window, and looked quickly away, jaw tightening.

            Maybe it wasn’t that hard to believe.

            “So, what’s the plan?” Dean asked stiffly. It was like being around the Shifter had fried his wires; he was restless and hopping, stuck between being a good soldier standing at attention, and staying a hunter on all-systems-go around one of the things he’d have blown away by now under different circumstances. “ _Is_ there a plan?”

            “There’s a plan.” John said distractedly, staring up at the building. He didn’t elaborate, and Dean stared at him, waiting.

            “You wanna fill us in, or—?”

            “I’m thinking, Dean.” John said sharply, his critical gaze sweeping over the place. He loosed up a little. “We’re right above the sewer hub. Now. There’s a bathroom on the first floor in the back with a grate; that should lead indirectly down into the sewers. Whatever happens, we _cannot let that monster_ get underground.”

            “Yeah, tell us somethin’ we don’t know.” Dean muttered.

            “This also may not be the kind of situation where going in spraying bullets would be the best idea.” John added firmly. “As far as we know, whatever’s escaped Purgatory, it hasn’t made a movement to rally the scattered armies. But this, whatever it is, hasn’t started its conquest against humans yet. Until it does, these monsters are just—” He paused, searching for the word.

            “Sleeper cells?” It cropped up immediately in Sam’s head.

            “Sleeper cells. Exactly.” John nodded. “We won’t be able to talk it down, but it hasn’t gotten the green light to carry out its orders yet. Right now, it’s just compelling people, testing its hold over them. Which gives us a window where its intentions are to shoot, not kill. Are you boys following me?”   

            “Yes, sir.” Sam and Dean said, then glared daggers at each other.

            John almost smiled, “Good,” and turned back toward the building.

            _That’s not dad!_ Dean mouthed furiously.

            _You said it first_! Sam pointed an accusing finger at him. Dean rolled his eyes, obviously exasperated, and looked away.

            “A monster with humans under its control.” John mused. “It could easily use them as a shield. Or a wrecking ball.”

            “Not sure I follow.” Sam said, shaking the wind-whipped hair out of his eyes.

            John grimaced. “Humans against humans, crushing any resistance that comes along. It makes the monsters less likely to lose their numbers.”

            “Man, what is it with you supernatural freaks and this idea that humans are just toy soldiers you can toss around?” Dean asked, stepping up to John’s other side.

            “It’s a mindset that dates back to the times before monsters had to be in hiding.” John said. “When we were feared instead of being written off as a legend. Something to scare a child with.” He took a deep breath. “Here’s the plan. When we get inside, we find the monster. I want you two to back me up. I’ll be the one going after it.”

            “That’s…pretty dangerous, y’know.” Sam said cautiously.

            “I know.” A pained look shivered across John’s face. “But it’s like I told you both before: its power doesn’t work on me. I can’t risk it turning one of you.”

            “Can’t, or just won’t?” Dean asked.

            John checked the rounds in the sawed-off. “These won’t do much good.” He tossed the firearm to Dean, who caught it one-handed. “Give me your knives.”

            Dean passed him the bronze one, but held back on the silver. “Got an allergy to this one, remember?”

            John frowned. “Just slide it in under my belt, Dean.”

            “Can’t wait until the second date?” Dean cracked, wedging the blade under the leather strap. Sam rolled his eyes.

            “Thanks. Now listen up,” John was focused, calm, the kind of saving grace that was holding Sam and Dean together. “She has these humans under her control. This is just a game for them; don’t—”

            “Yeah, we know, keep ours heads up, watch each other’s backs, no deep-sixing humans.” Dean drawled.

            “Exactly.” John’s fingers flexed on the handle of the bronze knife. “Ready?”

            Sam glanced at Dean and nodded.

            The inside of the paper factory was dark; whoever had broken in, they’d been smart enough to leave the lights off. John went first, hunched low to avoid the swatches of light from the streetlamps as they tumbled through the tall windows on the far wall. Sam and Dean were right behind him, falling into a familiar pattern: Dean going first, Sam on his back, then switching, Sam creeping forward, Dean guarding him. It was the way their dad had taught them to go into dangerous situations where battle could ensue, something they’d never outgrown.

 When they reached the far side of the room, Sam and Dean took opposite sides of the door. John glanced between them, then tested the doorknob.

It swung in, unresisting; Sam and Dean whirled around the corner, sights trained into the room. It was full, walls crammed floor-to-ceiling with hibernating machines. The air was still warm from the power they must have kicked off during the day. It made Sam’s skin prickle.

“Clear.” Sam said under his breath, and John ducked past them, gaze sweeping all four walls, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

Something banged, and clattered deeper into the factory, through the wall on their right. Sam and Dean turned their firearms on the only other door apart from the one they’d come through.

“Monsters or kids?” Dean said quietly.

“Only one way to find out.” John flipped the knife around in his hand, took a step toward the door.

It flew open, banging off the wall and ricocheting. For one second Sam caught a glimpse of fiery, hate-filled eyes, fixed on him; then gunfire popped as Dean squeezed the trigger, and a startled yell punctuated the movement of the monster fleeing toward the far side of the room.

“Got him!” John yelled, taking off after the monster.

“Dad—!” Sam took a step after him, but Dean didn’t move, gun trained on the doorway. Sam turned to follow his brother’s riveted gaze.

There were five of them—no, six. Maybe college students or older. They looked a little dizzy, maybe drunk. That figured. You’d have to be, to break into some place as weird as a paper factory on Christmas. They were also armed: wrenches, saws, a shotgun. Shotgun. Not good. Sam exchanged a brief glance with Dean.

“Who the hell are you guys?” The kid in front asked.

His friend elbowed him. “Hey, Kris, lay off, man. Maybe they’re cops.”

“ _Cops_?” The girl behind him craned her neck to look over his shoulder. “Who called the _cops_?”

“Dude, you guys broke into a _factory_.” Dean pointed out. “Who _wouldn’t_?”

“That chick said she turned off the alarm!” The leader-guy—Kris—stared at Sam and Dean with bloodshot eyes, shotgun crooked over his arm.

“Kris! Shut up!” His friend hissed.

“The woman you talked to,” Sam said, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean. “What did she ask you to do?”

Kris leered. “Blow me.”

“Kris, are you crazy? You can’t talk to a cop like that!” The girl yelped.

“Yeah, Kris.” Dean said. Sam shot him a look and Dean shrugged, wide-eyed.

“Man, shut up.” Kris snapped at Dean.

“Cool it!” His friend said, looking at Sam. “She just made us promise to help her with something. Some kind of Christmas prank.” He crossed his arms and shrugged. “We just figured, what the hell, we already broke in some place on a dare.”

“What’d she offer you?” Sam demanded. The kid looked over his shoulder awkwardly. “ _What_. Did she offer you?”

“Money, okay, man? Look, tuition’s up, a hundred bucks for some stupid prank, it’s no big deal—”

“Ah, Geeze. Sam.” Dean growled.

“I know.” Sam said bleakly. “Listen, you need to get out of here. All of you. You need to get out right—”

A sieve of fire arched across his back as something large, solid and cold jolted across his spine, throwing him down to his knees. Dean jerked sideways, spinning and firing, but the monster had already moved, planting itself between the humans, and Sam and Dean.

Dean hovered over Sam. “You okay?”

“She chucked a wrench at me!” Sam whined, dragging himself to his feet.

“Suck it up.” Dean muttered.

            Even though he could feel blood spreading out under his skin where the wrench had hit, Sam did suck it up, and got a good look at the monster.

            It looked…average. Human. Like the werewolves and vampires they’d faced. Long, stringy dark hair, waxy face, but…human.

            Sam’s gaze moved sideways, to the monitor on one of the machines, and he went still, watching the reflection.

            There it was. The ugliness captured in the glass, a skeletal wraith with a sunken face, baring a sharp toothed grin as it met his eyes in the glass. It breathed out, and a vaporous stream poured from between those needle-sharp teeth. Sam’s head snapped around—the monster’s too, never taking its eyes off of his. There was nothing coming out of its mouth. Sam looked again; it bared its tongue, lips ripping back in a snarl.

            “Dean.” Sam said lowly.

            “I see it.” Dean grunted.

            “Where’s John?” Sam demanded.

            “Chasing his tail.” The monster replied with a feral grin. “It’s true what they say about you two. You simply can’t resist the urge to take a case, can you?”

            “Yeah, about that. How about you get your psycho human friend down here, tell her if she wants to start a war, she’s gonna have to meet us face to face.” Dean gestured from the monster to himself and back again.

            “Who? Oh, you mean that insignificant puppet-master?” The monster scoffed. “Dean, _please_. I’m not a part of her story. She’s not on _my_ side. She’s my enemy, too. We have that in common.”

            “Then tell us who pulled you out of the pit.” Sam said.

            “What, and spoil everything so soon? First rule of any good story, Sam—save the climax for closer to the _end_.”

            Dean smirked. “That’s really funny. How about this: humans are _done_ being part of these kinda wars! You hear me? Done, out, we are _sick_ of your crap.”

            “This won’t be like any war you’ve fought before, Dean.” The monster said softly. “The tide that’s coming—not even you so-called _hunters_ can hold it back. It’s going down…right now. And it hasn’t even started yet.”

            Dean glared at her and Sam could see his brother wired tight, ready to explode. “You’re sure talking better than the last time I saw you, bitch.”

            “One of my charms, I suppose. I’m the first of my kind, Dean. The possibilities are _endless_.”

            “Guess we’ll see about that.” Dean angled his firearm toward her.

            “Kris, come here.” The monster said, quickly, steely look in her eyes, steely note in her voice. Kris stared at her like she was crazy; then, very slowly, he walked forward to stand beside her. The monster put a hand on his shoulder and slid around to rest her chin on his shoulder. “I want you and your friends to kill these men.”

            Kris jerked away. “ _What_? Oh, hell! No! That’s not what we said we’d do!”

            “Kris.” The monster said silkily. “You swore to help me. I didn’t say with what.”

            Kris had gone sheet-white. “It was just supposed to be…s-some kinda prank.”

            “Does this look like a prank?” The monster snapped, switching gears. “Those men have guns! They came here to kill you and your friends! Why else would they be here, armed, in the middle of the night?”

            Sam saw something move out of the corner of his eye; he glanced sideways at one of the printing machines and caught a flash of golden-orange at ground level, moving closer.

            The monster put her mouth close to Kris’s ear; from this angle, Sam couldn’t get a shot without blowing the kid’s head off.

            “Kill—”          

            John sprang out from behind the machine, smacking into the monster and knocking her to the floor. Kris hefted the shotgun and fired wild; Sam shoved Dean down and they took cover as an open spray of fire ate into the machines.

            “Dude, this is why _idiots_ shouldn’t drink!” Dean bellowed above the repetitive bawl of gunfire.

            “He’s not the one I’m worried about.” Sam said. “Bullets run out. The rest of them have—metal clubs, basically.”

            “Lemee shoot ’em.” Dean said halfheartedly. Sam shot him a look and Dean rocked his head back against the machine. “Awww, man, Sammy.”

            “On three?” Sam said, tucking his gun back into his waistband and pulling his shirt down over it. “Try and stay alive.”

            “Sounds like a plan.”

            Sam nodded. “One.”

            Another hailstorm of shotgun rounds. He ducked down hard against the side of the machine.

            “Two…”

            “C-Come on, you bastards!” Kris yelled, false bravado over a shaking voice. “You think I’m gonna let you hurt me and my friends?”

            Dean met Sam’s eyes. Sam ducked his head.

            They split around the sides, Dean going straight for Kris, knocking the shotgun straight up so the next shot pelted into the ceiling. Sam went for Kris’s friend, the one who’d told them about the deal—the one with a section of steel pipe three feet long. The kid swung it like a bat— _bash!_ —into the wall beside Sam’s head. Sam grabbed it and wrenched, spraining the kid’s wrist out, and elbowed him hard in the temple to disorient him. The kid went staggering and Sam wrenched the pipe free and flung it out into the main room, turning toward the four other college students who looked like they were thinking twice about this.

            As if they had a choice.

            They came for him all at once, and Sam fell back on his hand-to-hand combat training, all the things he’d been learning almost relentlessly since he’d been a kid. Years of fighting with Dean in motel rooms—wrecking walls, splitting pictures, leaving fist-shaped bruises where their father would never see—it flooded back into Sam like a slideshow behind his eyes. He chopped and whirled, fighting dirty, dodging blows and taking them when he had to; but taking them in ways they wouldn’t hurt. These kids were good aims, but they weren’t trained fighters, not the way Sam was.

            And maybe it felt good; maybe he was enjoying not feeling like he was getting his ass kicked. Thrown into walls, electrocuted, beaten to death by a Draugr, by a dragon. Sam was done being the underdog, as much as he was done running. He was giving as good—better than he got. And it felt good.

            And that scared him, because he was beating down on a bunch of _kids_.

            The girl came after him while he was taking out Kris’s right-hand man; this girl, the one with the wrench. He’d already shoved her down but she kept getting back up, tough as nails, probably terrified. And Sam saw her out of the corner of his eye; he sucker-punched the kid to the floor, whirled and grabbed her by her throat, slamming her up against the wall.

            She stared at him, wrench clattering out of her hands, tears slipping down her cheeks. Sam could feel her wild, frantic heartbeat against his sweaty palm. He was aching in places, bleeding. But that pulse was all he knew. It brought him back, drove a stake into his skull— _Memphis_. A girl, staring at him. Pinned down. Begging him for help.

            Sam remembered turning and walking away.

            “ _Sam_!”

            His grip loosened; he felt his eyes cross for a second as he yanked himself out of that thought, that dream, memory. He loosened his fingers and the girl dropped onto her knees in front of him, hair a swinging curtain around her face, choking, gasping. How close had he come to strangling the life out of her?

            _Memphis_.

            A spike of pain nailed into his eyes. Sam squeezed them shut for a second and stepped back.

            Dean brushed past him, knelt and pulled the girl’s head up. “Sorry, sweetheart, gotta do this. For your own good. Just don’t fight me, okay?”

            He pinched his fingers around her throat, cutting off the blood flow to her brain. Her eyes bulged and she thrashed wildly, but within ten seconds she was slumped, out cold. Dean lowered her to the floor, got up and turned to face Sam. Dean was scuffed, grime caked into his face. It made him look younger.

            “You okay?” He demanded.

            Sam didn’t have the heart to lie. “Where’s John?”

            “Dunno. Took off chasing the monster.” Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go. We’re runnin’ out of time. Can’t expect these guys to sleep all night.”

            Sam waited for Dean to walk away, then reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out the pills. He was getting low—down to ten. He tossed back two and hurried out after Dean.

            Dean had knocked Kris unconscious against the wall; he kicked the shotgun out of the kid’s hands as they walked past, picked up the wrench the monster had thrown at Sam, weighed it and then handed it to Sam.

            “Payback?” He offered.

            Sam pulled out his gun. “I’ll stick with silver bullets, thanks.”

            Dean shrugged. “Eh, suit yourself.” He looked up at the ceiling, squinting, then nudged Sam with his elbow. “Hey. Up there.”

            Sam looked; there was a greenish, thin metal staircase leading to the upper floor, two corner offices and another door. He nodded Dean to go, then covered him.

            They headed up the stairs and toward the door; Dean nudged it in with his foot and stepped boldly into the dark hallway on the other side, Sam one step behind. They walked through, and down a staircase on the far side, into a wide, drafty warehouse where the paper was stored on pallets, ten, fifteen feet high against the walls.

            “Whoa.” Sam murmured.

            “Yeah, tell me about it. This is hide-and-seek heaven.” Dean’s eyes moved from corner to corner across the room, and then he motioned with his firearm toward an open door at the far end of the room. “Sam, you hear that?”

            Sam stopped on the bottom step, listening. He heard a faraway splash and cocked his head, hair flopping into his eyes. He shook it off. “What the hell is that?”

            A piercing laugh cut off the end of his sentence. Dean shot him a look and started running, Sam right behind him. They skidded to a stop beside the door and Dean flung out an arm, catching Sam across the chest. He backed them both against the wall and jerked his head at the door, putting a finger to his lips for quiet.

            “—you, that isn’t going to work on me.” The monster’s smug voice reached Sam’s ears first, over the splashing sound that wasn’t letting up. “You came unprepared, Johnny Boy.”

            “I can see that.” John replied calmly. “But you have nowhere else to go.”

            “Not unless I knock you down.” The monster sing-songed. Her voice was grating on Sam; he looked at Dean, who was inching closer to the doorway. After a few seconds, the monster added quietly, viciously, “You’re a creature of both worlds. You’re walking a fine line, John. You can’t stay on it forever.”

            “It’s worked for me so far.”

            “And how long has it been? Hmm? A few weeks, maybe? A few months? Face it, John, you’re still an infant. You don’t know what the real world of a hunter is like. And, so what if you find out? What then? You’ll just be on the losing side of a war that you can’t stop.”

            Sam wanted to get his hands on this monster and choke the life out of her. But Dean was still holding him up, still waiting. _Waiting for what_?

            “That’s entirely possible.” John sounded world-weary again, the way Sam remembered his dad when he’d come home from a hunt. Wrecked. Broken. Feeling like he had nothing and no one left to lean on. “But I’ve got Sam and Dean. All I know is how to protect them. And believe me when I say, I’ll stand between you and those boys, every day, for the rest of my pitiful existence. Your master won’t get his hands on them as long as I’m breathing.”

            Sam looked wide-eyed at Dean, but his brother was focused on something across from them, and up. Sam looked, catching sight of the oblong disk reflecting the light from the bathroom: a mirror, which from Sam’s angle didn’t show much, but from where Dean was standing, he would be able to see inside.

            Dean slowly drew his firearm and motioned for Sam to come closer.

            “This is pathetic. A creature of your power shouldn’t be wasting it on one form. You have control like I’ve never seen, John. You have so much potential. You could come with us. Be where you belong.”

            “I am where I belong. On the right side of the line.”

            A pause. “You only have one weapon, John.”

            “It’s the only one I need.”

            Sam heard a clatter, a yell of pain that went on for two, four, six seconds—getting louder. Dean spun around the corner and the kicked the door the rest of the way in, slipping on the wet tiles in the doorway. Sam was right behind him, staring.

            The bronze knife lay at Dean’s feet; the monster had John pinned down on the yellow-tiled floor of the bathroom, flopped across his chest. He was the one screaming, a sound Sam had heard maybe once, maybe twice in his childhood. When John couldn’t hide it anymore. When the mask was slipping.

            Dean was the first one moving; he grabbed the monster and hauled back on her, rolling both her and John onto their sides. Sam joined them, dropping to his knees as John’s scream tapered in his throat and he hunched over on himself, clutching his arm.

            A flash of silver, between him and the monster.

            He’d jammed the silver knife into her chest.

            “Let go!” Sam commanded, wrenching at John’s arm, but he seemed paralyzed. “Dad! Let go!”

            John’s fingers unlocked suddenly and his arm dropped, splayed out on the tiles. Sam picked up John’s head—not caring that it was a Shifter, not caring about much other than that scream still ringing in his ears—and rested it on his knees. John’s eyes were closed, his breaths coming out in short, painful rasps.

            There was a broken pipe in the ceiling raining water down on them; blood mingling with the water, flooding into a man-sized grate on the floor. A grate leading into the sewers. John had been the last line of defense. Trenches carved into the walls showed where they’d fought, the broken pipe a testament, too. There’d been a struggle.

            Sam looked at Dean, hunching over the monster. His brother picked his gaze up to meet Sam’s, shock scrawled on his muddied features.

            “She’s dead.”

            Eyes still closed, John smiled.

            “Why’d you do that?” Sam asked, voice choked. He couldn’t explain why he cared—except it was his dad’s face. “You freak, you knew you were allergic to silver.”

            John squinted one eye open. “Well. So was she.”

            “You stupid bastard.” Dean  moved to Sam’s side, picked up John’s hand and looked at it. “These are friggin’ third degree burns! You could burned your hand clean off!” He shrugged his jacket off and wrapped it around John’s hand, protecting it. “Thought monsters couldn’t go suicidal.”

            “Maybe I’m not all monster.”

            Sam had to fight down a fatigued smile. “Maybe.”

            The water kept spraying down around them, and Sam looked at the monster’s dead body. “She caused a lot of trouble, for being that easy to kill.”

            “That’s the rap for most monsters, Sammy.” John said quietly. “She had more up her sleeve. She was going to use the humans as a conduit. A way to make her voice heard through the whole city. This was just the start.”

            “She could’ve turned everyone against each other.” Sam realized bleakly.

            “Why didn’t you let us handle it? We had bullets.” Dean snapped.

            “I didn’t hear you outside.” John said, head turning toward Sam, eyes closing again. Sam cradled the shifter’s head, watching that face he knew so well it hurt, that face he caught glimpses of in his own.

            “Yeah, you liar.” Dean muttered.

            Water dripped off the ends of Sam’s hair. “Dean.”

            “Huh?”

            “Why’d you wait?” Sam cut his brother a glance, then looked away. “Why didn’t you just come in and stop her?”

            Dean shrugged. “Wanted to know if we could trust this guy.”

            Sam blinked, slowly. “And?”

            Dean dragged in a deep breath, then prodded John’s leg with his gun. “Hey! You still with us?”

            John’s head jerked slightly in Sam’s grasp. “I’m with you, Dean.”

            Sam didn’t think he imagined the pain that jolted across Dean’s face, no matter how fast he hid it. “Why’d you even start the whole Braveheart thing? Y’know, draggin’ me and Sam in here. That was pretty gutsy. Thing coulda turned one of us against you. I’m just sayin’.”  
            “It was a risk I had to take.” John said. “If protecting you meant putting you in danger, I was willing to do it. Everyone has a weak spot, kiddo. Even us monsters. And I think I found mine.”

            Water streamed off the tip of Sam’s nose. “They’ll never stop hunting you.”

            John’s eyes opened, fixing on his. “I’m already an outcast. From both species. Hunters won’t have me. Shapeshifters would never trust me. And even if they did, it’s not the life I ever wanted. So, Sammy…you wanna tell me what else they can do?”

            “Kill you.” Dean suggested flatly.

            “Technically speaking, I’m already dead.” John’s faint smile returned. “Merry Christmas, boys.”

            Dean plopped ass-end into the puddle of water, hanging his wrists off his knees. “Yeah, how messed up is this? First Christmas we get to spend with dad, and he’s not even dad.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then sighed. “Guess I’ll take what I can get.”

            “Good, Dean. That’s real good.” John said encouragingly.

            Sam met Dean’s eyes again, and felt something ripple in the air between them—hot, like sulfur and ash, tasting like death in Sam’s mouth. Something they couldn’t take back. Words. Hanging on the air between them. Things they’d both said.

            _Freak_.

            _All monsters deserve to die_.

            Sam looked down at John, feeling a hard blow in his gut.

            _Memphis_.

            He pulled out the bottle with his free hand.

            Took two more pain pills.

 


	10. Epilogue

_December 25 th, 2011_

_Fisherman’s Dock, Lake Eerie, Ohio_

No snow, just rain. Didn’t look much like Christmas.

            Dean had a couple hours of hard sleep under his belt. He’d crashed on the way back to the motel, staggered up the stairs since Sam had nagged him about sleeping in the Impala, dove onto the bed and slept so hard it had taken him a few minutes to wrap his brain around what was happening when John had nudged him awake.

            Monster was dead. They’d left the body and the kids at the factory, called the cops on their way out. Not really the kinda mess they wanted to be tangled up in, at this point. Let the town figure it out for themselves. As far as anyone knew, Sam, Dean and John had staggered in drunk at one-thirty in the morning. That was their story and they were sticking to it.

            They’d left Sam sprawled out asleep on the bed. Dean didn’t know if John had talked to Sam and he didn’t care. That was up to the two of them; like he didn’t have enough to sort through by himself. Him and John had gotten into the Impala and just cruised the city for a while. Not talking, not looking at much, wrapped up in whatever they were thinking.

            Somehow, they’d ended up on the dock again, and that’s where they were standing now, the rotting wooden planks shifting under their feet. Leaning against the railing, same pose: arms crossed, shoulders hunched against the cold wind, eyes squinted against the watery glare from the sunlight. Dean caught John’s glance sideways and smirked. Some things probably weren’t gonna change, not any time soon.

            “So, Deano.” John employed the old nickname that Dean had hated since he was six. “Where do we go from here?”

            “I could shoot your ass.” Dean suggested half-heartedly. “Sam’s not here to stop me. Neither’s that promise-monster.”

            “You’re right, they’re not.”

            Dean swallowed hard. He hadn’t felt any overwhelming need to kill his brother in the last few hours, so he guessed John was right: the compulsion had died with the beast. Small favors. A lot of people were still dead, though. “How’s the hand?”

            John untucked it from against his chest and held it up; it was swathed in a bandage so thick his fingers couldn’t bend. Dean couldn’t really say that bothered him; maybe he didn’t care if this guy suffered. He was still a lying, two-faced dick. Even if he had put his life on the line to save Sam and Dean.

            “You’d be within your rights as a hunter if you shot me.” John said, looking out over the water again. “Not saying you wouldn’t be.”

            Dean dropped his head.

            Yeah. He’d be within his rights. Hunter was a hunter, every monster was a monster. He hadn’t believed that crap in years, not since Sam had begged and puppy-dog-eyed him into saving a vegetarian vampire from their old buddy Gordon. Sometimes things fell into the gray, and you just had to figure it out from there.

            “Not sure what I’m gonna do yet.” He said.

            “Neither am I.” John sighed. “But there’s one thing I do know, Dean. And I’ve been wanted to talk to you about this for a few days. You just haven’t given me the chance.” He gave Dean an ironic smile.

            “Yeah? What’s that?”

            “I know I’m not John Winchester.” The Shifter said calmly. “As much as I’ve wrapped myself up in who he was, I’m not him. But I _do_ have a mental link to him. I had it for almost a year. I don’t just have the memories, I have the feelings, the…emotions that went with them.”

            “You kidding me?” Dean snorted. “My dad didn’t feel much. You’re downloading the wrong emotions.”

            “He loved you.” John said quietly, stopping Dean’s bluster. “I could feel that the first second I saw you beside your car, Dean. Your father loved Mary, he loved Sammy. But when he looked at you, his world stopped turning. He would’ve done anything for you. Been anything he could’ve been. You were the most important thing in his life.” He paused with that small, sad smile Dean was getting to know again. “He’d never tell you that. But we both know, I’m not him.”

            “Got that right.” Dean said huskily, dropping his gaze to the choppy water. “My dad,” He cleared his throat. “If you’re right about him, man, he had a funny way of showing it.”

            “I have the backstage pass, Dean. I know what he felt.” John laid his bandaged hand on Dean’s shoulder. “And I feel the same thing whenever I see you. I’d protect you with my life, Dean. Any time you need anything, I’ll be there.”

            Dean avoided his eyes. “Yeah, well, that’s an improvement on my dad.” He turned his head aside. “Get lost, man.” When John didn’t move, Dean snapped a glare on him. “I’m serious, you better bail before I follow my hunter nature.”

            John smiled, a warm, genuine smile, and laid his had briefly on the side of Dean’s neck, giving him a little shake. “See you around, Dune.”

            Hands in the pockets of his long coat, John walked away down the pier. Dean watched him go, feeling himself deflating, the way he did after every case. But this time it went deeper than that. This one had been an up-and-down, magic-carpet-ride kind of emotional crazy. Dean hated all that touchy-feely stuff, but he’d gotten it heaped on with whipped cream and cherries the past couple days. It was enough to make a guy sick.

            Especially when he was letting go of something he’d wrangled himself into believing, both ways. For better and for worse, he’d been at both ends when it came to John. Believing in him too much, hating him too much. So the only way to deal was to let him walk away.

            “See you around, dad.”

 

 

            It was pushing noon when Dean got back to the motel room, and he was itching to get a move on. Maybe if they left town fast enough, they could find a decent joint with decent cheap beer and waste the rest of Christmas having another drinking game. Or they could just drive. Either way, Dean was tired of being stuck in this craphole town. Vermilion sucked.

            He called through the door while he pulled out his key. “Sam? Pack up the duffle, dude, we are blowin’ this joint.” He opened the door and it thumped against something solid but movable. Dean frowned, looked down—caught sight of a leg crooked around the door. His heart skipped into his throat and he wedged himself into the room. “Sam?”

            Sam was lying sprawled half-in, half-out of the bathroom, cheek pressed into the floor. Dean dropped, grabbed his shoulders and hauled his brother up, supporting him with one arm. “Hey! Hey, hey, hey! Sammy!” He hit Sam’s cheek, not too hard. “Hey, man, you with me? What happened? _Sam_!”

            He kept hitting, and finally Sam’s eyes flicked open. His pupils were so dilated his eyes almost looked back, tanking Dean’s stomach for a second.

            “Dean?” Sam’s forehead creased and he reached up really slowly, fisting his hand in the empty air beside Dean’s ear. “How many—are you—of there?”

            “What?” Dean stared at him, confused. Then he saw the orange bottle lying under the sink, and he felt the realization wedging itself into his throat. “Dude, are you high?”

            Sam’s head rolled back on the crook of Dean’s elbow and he laughed; actually sounded like a frog croaking. “Looks kinda low…to me.”

            “How many of these friggin’ things did you take?”

            “Uhhhhh. Enough.” Sam laughed.

            “You’re unbelievable.” Dean rolled Sam unceremoniously back onto the floor and got up, glaring down at him, one arm braced on the wall, the other on the doorpost. “The hell is wrong with you, Sam?”

            “With… _me_?” Sam echoed, his frown lines deepening. “What’s wrong with _you_?”

            “I’ve got a junkie brother, that’s what.” Dean snapped.

            “No!” Sam struggled to sit up on his hands and knees; it took him a minute. “You know what’s wrong with you, Dean? What’s wrong with you is…you think every monster is the shame. Same. Every monster’s the same, right?”

            “You really wanna argue about this right now? Dude, you can’t even string a sentence together.”

            “Let me _tell_ you something, Dean.” Sam dragged himself to his feet, using the shower curtain for support, almost ripping it off the pole. His dazed eyes were fixed on Dean’s face. “You—aren’t any better than them. You’re not any better than a _monster_ if you keep acting like every hunt is the same. You follow me?”

            “Yeah, Capone, I follow you. And that’s a load’a crap, all right?” Dean snapped. “If I didn’t treat cases likes cases, I’d’ve iced your ass back when I found out you were soulless.”

            Sam chuckled, a coarse, grating sound. Nails on a chalkboard. Ice on Dean’s spine. “Yeah. Well, maybe you should have.”

            Silence for a few seconds. “You wanna tell me why the sudden death wish?”

            “You wanna know why I _took_ these, Dean?” Sam demanded haltingly, making a kick for the orange bottle, missing and almost falling. Sagged against the wall, he stared at Dean. “ _Nightmares_. I can see Hell…every time I close my eyes. If I sleep for five minutes. I keep—seeing Lucifer everywhere. You wanna tell me this is better.” He raked a hand down his face, smiling emptily up at a frozen Dean. “Tell me I’m better off like this. With a soul that bleeds and hurts and feels.” He smirked. “Shoulda killed me.”

            Dean felt like he’d gotten the air knocked out of his lungs. Kicked out.

            He hadn’t known. Yeah, he’d figured something was up. Sam not eating, Sam not sleeping that much. It happened. Dean knew the nightmare cycle. But if he was seeing _Lucifer_ , then something was wrong. Worse than wrong. The wall was shattering and Dean didn’t have enough big-brother super-glue to put all the pieces back together.

            Not this time.

            “Why don’t you just _kill me_ , Dean?” Sam laughed out loud, reading his face.

            Something snapped inside of Dean; he stepped forward and punched Sam hard, knocked him back against the wall. Sam didn’t fight it, went down, dragging the shower curtain, ripping the flimsy plastic off so it collapsed on his head.

            And then he just sat there on the floor, looking like he was twelve, laughing so hard his face was turning red. The sound was echoing around the bathroom, slamming Dean’s ears, slamming him back and forth inside himself.

            He needed out. The only way out was _out_.

            “Kill me, Dean!” Sam kept laughing as Dean backed out of the room.

            “What the hell are you?” Dean breathed, not really sure he wanted to know what his brother was turning into. Not this time.

            Sam shook his head slowly, the plastic covering half his face, as Dean turned and walked out of the room. Sam’s laughter followed him, gut-splitting, breaking something impossible between them.

            “Shoulda killed me, Dean! You shoulda killed me when you had the chance!”

            Dean stopped with his hand on the doorknob. Looked over his shoulder at Sam.

            “You sober up, we’re gettin’ outta here.”

            He stepped out, banged the door shut, put his back to it and slid onto the floor, one knee up against his chest, elbow resting on it. He thumped his head back against the door and shut his eyes tight.

            Felt the impact as Sam sat with his back to the door on the other side.

            Less than a foot of solid door between them. A couple thousand miles apart, and Dean felt like neither of them was reaching back across to patch things up.

            Because, maybe, this time.

            This time.

            They just didn’t want to.

 

* * *

 

 

_"The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins_

_We start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes._

_We’ve got to live._

_No matter how many skies have fallen."_ —D.H. Lawrence

 


End file.
